Your Blood On My Hands
by everyone'ssister
Summary: We know Sam's first hunt took place in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But what we don't know is what ACTUALLY happened there. How bad of a first impression did hunting have on Sam to turn him from a trigger-happy, confident Winchester kid, to the soft hearted, hunting hating teenager that left John and Dean in order to escape it? WEE!CHESTERS
1. Prologue

We know Sam's first hunt took place in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But what we don't know is what ACTUALLY happened there. How bad of a first impression did hunting have on Sam to turn him from a trigger-happy, confident Winchester kid, to the soft hearted, hunting hating teenager that left John and Dean in order to escape it? WEE!CHESTERS

This is for lenail125 who requested as follows;

When I read the memory about Dean cleaning Sam's hands (in my story Comfort In The Little Things) it made me want to read more about it. I love wee/teen Winchester boys and how Dean takes care and protects Sam even more when they were kids.

This is for you, lenail125, hope you enjoy!

YOUR BLOOD ON MY HANDS

Prologue

Present day.

A cool night breeze dances around the boys as they stand over a shallow hole in the ground. The oldest brother ignites a packet of matches and tosses them into the indention in the earth, the salt and lighter fluid already poured over the dark corpse flaming up in a 'whoosh'. Soon the smell of burning fur and flesh is filling the air, the slight wind mercifully blowing it away from the Winchester boys.

Sam sits with a sigh on their green cooler, and gazes into the flickering flames that are mesmerizing his tired eyes. It's about four o'clock in the morning and they'd been tracking and chasing this black dog in these god forsaken woods since dusk. It had already been an exasperating hunt, with two leads that had turned up dry. Sam thought Dean had cursed more on this hunt than ALL their other hunts combined.

He looks to his brother who stands over the fire, chilled hands reached out to the flames that are consuming the creature's body. He smiles a little at the screwed up nature of that vision, but he's always finds it comforting how Dean can see the good things in hunting...like having a fire on a cold night.

He watches as he fancies he can see the tension and frustration rise and fly from his brother's tight shoulders. Dean turns and a soft smile bends his lips up as he meets Sam's gaze, tired lines in his face giving way to his laugh lines. He looks up into the night sky, and around at the rustling leaves in the branches of the trees. Somewhere an owl hoots in the depth of night, a coyote howls from a distant hill. Sam and Dean listen with unworried ears. After all, this has been their lullaby more often then not.

"Nice night," Dean states softly, like he's afraid to break the peaceful aura they're in right now.

Sam is always surprised at how fast Dean's moods will change. He blinks up at his brother with the sound of his soft tones. After all the yelling and the cursing Sam supposes it would only be healthy to take a little while to cool down. Unlike Dean, who falls from fully enraged to reflecting on the scenic night, in about sixty seconds.

He huffs a laugh, and glances up at his big brother with a fond, but tired smile on his face.

"What?" Dean asks, turning back to the fire to warm his hands, put keeping his eyes on Sam's smiling countenance.

"Nothing." Sam laughs again, "Just my ears are bleeding over here, and as soon as the thing's dead your like a sleepy kitten or something."

Dean looks affronted at the description. "Would you like me to cuss some more?"

Sam holds his hands up in surrender, actually kind of impressed...that's how much swearing Dean had done...but very glad, that apparently, his older brother's foul spree has run its course.

Dean chuckles, "I feel pretty good now that the son of a bitch IS DEAD!" He says the last words loudly giving the burning corpse double middle fingers and a cold, self-satisfied smile.

Sam shakes his head at his brother's antics and looks back to the fire, "It DOES feel good to have finally got him."

They wait in companionable silence for the corpse to burn so they can shovel the dirt over the ashes. Dean shifts where he stands and Sam thinks maybe he should give his brother a turn sitting, when he notices a black thread running down Dean's palm and dripping from the tips of his fingers where it sizzles and evaporates in the crackling flames.

"Dean?" He asks, rising.

Dean looks up quickly at his brother's change of tone, but relaxes as he follows Sam's gaze to his hand. "Oh yeah," he lifts his arm up, and looks at it as Sam approaches. "The little fu..." He catches himself, "IT got me a little before I pumped it fulla' silver."

(What had actually happened was the black dog barreled into Dean sending both him and it to the forest floor in a heap of limbs and claws and teeth and fur. Sam to the rescue, had shoved the dark beast off his brother with a savage kick to its belly. Dean had been emptying his gun into it from his spot on the forest floor before Sam even had his gun raised.)

Sam is by his side and peeling his jacket away from his arm in a moment, already feeling the slick wetness on the cloth. He hisses as he takes in the shredded sleeve, knowing the black dog's teeth had imbedded in his brother's skin and then ripped out with enough strength to rip the material.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He reprimands Dean.

He shrugs, "It doesn't hurt all that much," he says, watching as Sam is peeling away his clothes to get a glimpse at the actual wound.

"And you're always so truthful," Sam drawls sarcastically, fingering over the torn flesh, knowing from experience Dean is lying AND hurting. He'll never forget the first time he realized Dean lied about his wounds, never forget the guilt and nausea that had risen up in him at the thought of his big brother dealing with his wounds alone in some hotel bathroom while he and their dad slumbered in JUST the other room.

Dean seems to catch the gist of his brother's thoughts. He glances up from Sam's fingers and the bloody bite to look into Sam's frowning face. "Kinda brings up some memories."

"Mhm," Sam nods, intent on the fact that blood is still running down Dean's arm.

"You remember your first hunt?" Dean wonders out loud, still carefully watching his brother's face for his betraying expressions. The quick look up from his wound, and millisecond long bitch face is not lost on Dean. He's surprised when Sam, unexpectedly, looks him dead in the eyes. There's that burning light behind his eyes that always shows when Sam's passionate about something, ignited and reflecting the very much still raw feelings surrounding this memory.

"Like it was yesterday..."

...

November, 1992.

Dean bites his lip until it bleeds fighting back the groan of pain bubbling up in his throat. Don't wake up John. But most importantly don't wake up Sammy. Sam. He'd think this was all his fault, he'd blame himself, and that was the last thing Sam needs on his first hunt.

His little brother needs to sleep off the effects of a hunt gone wrong, needs to dream away the guilt. Dean knows the feeling himself. The way it weighs on you heart when you see the light fade from something's eyes. Even if it is an evil, wicked thing, it is life taken. It is blood split by your hands.

Dean grits his teeth through the bloody squelch that is the curved needle sliding through the mutilated skin that is hanging loose from his bicep. The black dog hadn't had any scruples about taking a taste tester out of one of the three hunters that had ambushed him. Dean lets his head thunk back against the bathroom wall, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through the pain before he starts the next stitch.

He's already washed out the wound with painful precision, the water has run down his bare torso and soaked into the waistband of his jeans. He's already shaking with the agony he's experiencing, and as the chill of the motel bathroom mixes with damp skin and clothes it leaves him violently shivering. He doesn't think he's ever sewed such jagged, ugly stitches.

Oh well, good thing chicks dig scars. (Dean's never really understood that, but he is the one who knows what scars mean...hellish pain, and even more nightmarish the actual experiences they are proof of.) He knows women are supposed to be the more gentle and compassionate race but really, ladies, scars just reflect the ugliest and meanest parts of life.

"HOLY SHIT..." He hisses through clenched teeth, THAT HURTS, as he runs the needle through his skin again, watching the blood run down the transparent thread and drip to the floor after a moment's pause. His jaw flexes and Dean puts another sloppy stitch into his skin, he steels himself because he's not going to stop again until it's over.

Besides, he deserves this. It's all his fault after all. His heart wasn't in the hunt, his mind was wandering...of all the times. He should have been using the last few months to prepare him and Sam for his little brother's first hunt, rather than feeling sorry for himself, and being stuck in denial.

Sam was a brave kid, strong. After all, he could shoot, knew silver killed werewolves, (and now black dogs) and could run two miles. Two miles was a pretty long way, especially for a nerdy, lanky boy like Sam.

Dean should have guessed there was no stopping the inevitable, should have known with both John and Sam Winchester on his case there was no way he was winning. Should have engrained in Sam all the important lessons he'd learn while hunting as John's main source of back up.

Instead he'd nearly gotten himself killed, AND Sam.

Oh god, his little brother. He can see him now as it could have ended. His little brother still and pale, stretched out in the dead leaves on the cold, forest floor. His life's blood, running precious like a liquid gold mine out into the dirt, from the vicious bite the black dog had jerked from his soft throat with his long, dried-blood coated teeth.

The guilt and fear washing over Dean brings up his supper. He is on his knees, shaking in front of the toilet in a heart beat. He vomits silently for a minute, spitting the last acidy taste from his mouth, and wiping his lips with a shaking hand.

He throws out his good arm's hand to the sink vanity to help pull himself up. He must still be a little off his game, because his hand lands in their first aide kit sending it plummeting to the bathroom floor.

Busted.

Dean's other hand shoots out on instinct and catches the box before it hits the floor. Dean swears he hears the rip. He KNOWS he feels it. The rest of the contents of his stomach are in his mouth and pouring over his lap before he can even register what has happened and why black spots are edging his vision.

"Sonuvabitch," he whispers, looking through blurring eyes to discover his stitch job entirely ripped out, blood bubbling up from the now worsened wound. It runs down his arm, and to his elbow where it dribbles off and hits the floor.

He tries to breathe deep, pressing his forehead into the cool wood of the sink vanity. Tries to set aside the pain, separate it from his psyche, make it just a something, make it a thing he must deal with and nothing else.

He's fisting his hands so tight against the pain, that he actually realizes his finger nails are digging into the soft flesh of his palm so deep it hurts. Dean disciplines himself to breath and release his clenched fingers. He grabs his dirty tee-shirt from where he threw it to the floor earlier, and gasps a pained breath as he presses it unerringly to the wound, soaking the blood into the soft cotton and staunching its flow.

A hand runs through his sweat slick hair, only to freeze raised as a faint knock reaches his ears.

It's echoed by a soft, hesitant voice calling through the thin bathroom door.

"Dean?"

tbc...

PLEASE REVIEW! ;)

thank you


	2. Chapter 1

This chapter contains some dialogue from 11.08 "Just My Imagination". No copy right intended.

Chapter 1.

November, 1992.

Dean had been putting it off. Been avoiding it for as long as he could. But Sam was a stubborn kid. He didn't mind if he had to ask a trillion times, he would get his answer. Every time the two older Winchester's went on a hunt he'd ask Dean to ask their dad if he could come, and Dean would say he'd try his best, and that would be the end of it. Dean would say John said no, and he'd leave Sam with shoulders slumped, and hazel eyes dull with disappointment. It hurt Dean to see how it hurt his little brother, but better his preteen pride wounded than getting killed.

Dean hated lying to Sam. He really did. It wasn't his fault that life seemed intent on making him a dishonest person. But Dean would go to any extent to keep Sam safe, lying being one of the least rash things he'd do. And as a thirteen year old hunter, Dean Winchester could get pretty desperate.

Every time John came to him with a new hunt Dean's heart was in his mouth expecting His dad to say, "Go get Sammy, he's coming on this one." And every time John said nothing, Dean said nothing about Sam's request to tag alone. He'd say he had to call and check up on him, and then he'd tell Sam John said no, he'd say he was sorry and that he'd tried his best for Sam. And God help him, he WAS trying to do his best by Sam. Trying to shield him from this ugly part of life; this dirty, bloody life.

Dean knew the day was coming, knew he couldn't put it off forever. But like most of those inevitable things in life Dean pushes it back in his mind as much as he can. He fights the stress and worry by throwing himself into hunting...into making himself as good as he can so there would be no need for Sam. Hoping that John would feel that when he hunted he only needed Dean, and Sam would be safe wherever they were temporarily calling home.

It was a fool's hope.

The realization of his fear was near, and Dean was in denial. Time, John, and Sam were not on his side.

...

John Winchester walks into the motel room, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. Dean looks up from a couple of files spread out in front of him on the table, watching his father stalk into the room pulling at the tie that he mumbles is 'strangling' him. Dean smirks. John always gets ill when he has to dress up in his 'monkey suit' as he calls it.

John gives him a severe look, efficiently wiping the smug look from his son's face. Dean ducks his head and gets back to scanning over the varied police reports in front of him as his father comes to stand over his shoulder.

"Anything new?" John asks, flipping through a few pictures and then tossing back on the table.

Dean scowls and gathers up the photographs and places each back with their file. "No sir," he answers, "All suspected animal attacks, and all taking place in the same stretch of woods, so..."

"So potential hunting grounds." John finishes, nodding. "What I found at the mortuary goes along with that, that doctor would NOT shut up."

Dean snickers a little, still taking one last look over the information they have. If there's one thing he's learned over his short hunting experience, it's that the last thing you want is to be ill informed, and God forbid, surprised.

You are going to need the element of surprise to take down most of the evil sons of bitches out there.

"What're you thinking it is?" He asks, as John sheds the starchy white button up and toes off his black dress shoes.

John shrugs, stepping out of his slacks and slipping back into his comfortable jeans, sliding a jean shirt over his white t-shirt. "We'll know more after we check out those woods, but I'mma guess a black dog. Kill was messy, even for a werewolf."

Dean grimaces looking at the crime scene photos, messy didn't really do it justice.

"You ready now?" Dean asks, knowing his father all too well.

"Yeah," John affirms, checking over his favorite hand gun, freshly cleaned by Dean earlier that morning. He slides a loaded clip into it. "Let's go check it out while it's still light, just to be on the safe side."

Dean nods, shutting the files and going for his coat and gun, "Lemme call Sammy and then I'll be ready."

"Okay, hurry it up." John says, sitting to tie on his boots.

John follows Dean out of the room, locking it behind him. He sits heavily in the impala, cranking it up, watching Dean slip quarters into the payphone and give a precautionary look around as he waits for Sam to pick up.

It always causes something unpleasant to rise up in John when his oldest son displays such suspicion and worry. Dean never relaxed now, not even around him. There was a predatory attitude that had come to turn his gait into a stalk, and a dangerous gleam that shone from his green eyes. They only took on warmth like Mary's when Sam was there. His lips only turned up into a sincere smile when Sam was beside him.

He sighs, running a hand over his forehead...he knew he screwed up Dean's childhood royally. And the only reason he felt slightly better about Sam was because Dean petted and nurtured him plenty for the both of his 'absent' parents. Really it was time for Sammy to get out in the REAL world more.

Sam needs to get out from under his big brother's wing, the worrying question was would John have to tear off the wing in the process?

Dean waits for a few more rings than usual, getting a little anxious, but smiling when he hears Sam's voice on the other end of the line.

"Dean?"

"Hey," Dean says, relieved.

"Didja' ask?" Sam sounds so hopeful. Dean hates to tear him down.

"Yeah," he says, pursing his lips, and looking over his shoulder, half afraid his lies are going to find him out. "It's not gonna happen."

"Come on." Sam says, sounding about three years old and like a whining puppy dog at the same time. "You said!"

The whining tells on Dean's already on edge nerves. If this goes on much longer Sam's going to ask John himself. The Dean'll be busted. "Look, I said I would ask. Dad said no, what do you want me to do about it?"

"But...I've been shooting and I can run two miles..." Sam sounds frustrated and like he's desperately grasping at straws. "I know silver kills werewolves, and," he finishes, failing miserably at trying to sound impressive.

"Sammy," Dean says, trying to absolve his little brother.

"No fair!" Sam bursts out, sounding so miserable it pulls on Dean's heart. "You were hunting when you were younger than me!" He tells Dean petulantly.

Dean finds his temper slipping away from him, "Yeah, well I never had an imaginary friend," he hisses back, knowing it's a low blow.

The silence on the other end of the phone reflects how much it hurt his little brother, Dean sighs, "Look," he backtracks, "I'll keep working on dad alright? Maybe you can come next time," he soothes.

"Yeah," Sam answers, sounding doubtful. Good.

"Alright, I gotta go, call you in a coupla' days."

"Yeah, I'll just be..." Dean hangs up before Sam can finish his pity party answer, and runs to join his impatient father in the impala.

He sighs, looking up to the sky, watching the gloomy weather increase.

"Well, we can blow the tracking idea." He mumbles, watching the rain torrent down heavier.

John grunts, "Damned rain," Dean cocks a brow at his father, watching the usually focused man drive distractedly towards their destination. The look that falls over John's eyes show Dean his parent is far away, or at least his mind is.

John being preoccupied means Dean has a few minutes to himself. He settles into the impala's seat, probably his favorite place to be, and reflects on his little brother.

There's really no way to keep Sam away. His father will, one day, be ready for the youngest Winchester, and will call him out to join their ranks. And it will be soon. Because Sam's right. He is ready, he is strong. Well, has much as any nine year old could be. And Dean IS frigging proud. Sam is the apple of his eye, he's pretty much Dean's.

He remembers the first time he held Sam. He remembers wrapping his arms tightly around his little brother's tiny form and running for both their lives from the house that stole their mother, and killed their chance at happiness. He remembers consoling a screaming baby those first few weeks when both brothers couldn't comprehend what happened to their beautiful, loving mother. Or when this distracted, grim man replaced the soft eyed father they knew.

Dean remembers being the one warming bottles of milk, climbing into Sam's playpen and shushing him into slumber with pets and whispered promises of sunshine and safety. He knows the dependency a child feels, the burden that it lays on Dean's shoulders. The shuddering sobs during the night, wiping tears from chilled cheeks, and pulling a little body under the cover beside him. The cold toes slipping under the hem of his pajama pants seeking out warmth, sending goosebumps down Dean's whole body and jerking him from sleep.

He's been there through every frustrated tear, and he is the one who helps Sam keep his grades up. He's the one that keeps records from all his schools. He kept the drawing for 2nd grade art glass, he has the first math test Sam got an honorary mention for. He keeps them because he knows Sam won't be stuck here, knows his little brother just isn't cut out for this. Will have all this information when Sam needs it, when Sam's ready to go out on his own. College, a job, normalcy, safety.

All this, all he's done, all Sam has done, it has made the Winchester brother's who they are. Dean is proud of that, of Sam, of himself. He doesn't know what the future holds, but surely if he kept Sam alive through the most critical parts of his young life he can do so for the rest of his life too? He has yet to screw up with Sam, he doesn't want to start now.

Dean can't say what the future holds, but he knows for now he can only do his best in the present day. So for today, he's kept Sam from the hunt, for today Sam is innocent and safe and bored and probably pissed as hell, but Dean has learned sometimes loving someone is hurting them, just a touch. In this instance, Sam is just gonna have to freaking live with it.

John pulls his car into a muddy dirt road leading to the woods, with a chain linked around two trees on the opposite sides of the road blocking the way. He frowns.

"I guess we'll have to leave the car here."

Dean frowns too, climbing out of the impala, he likes the idea even less than his father.

Father and son both tuck their guns into the backs of their jeans, John throwing Dean a silver dagger, which the younger tucks into the ankle of his boot. They trek into the woods, soon disappearing in the midst of the tree trunks.

Dean doesn't like the woods. Too quiet. Too easy for the young hunter to make some sort of unnatural noise to draw attention to himself. With his senses turned up high, he can feel everything, if there anything bigger than an earth worm looking at him Dean gets a prickly, suspicious sensation that won't go away.

He spots what is currently causing the feeling, a squirrel, perched on a limb about three feet away and six feet up in a tree. It's a sign of lacking in the extra terrestrial if wild life is still hanging around. He keeps a wary eye out, nodding and agreeing with his father's instructions to move ahead with hand motions.

He and John creep noiselessly over the forest floor, guns now held low by their legs when things drop quiet around them. Dean stumbles on some gruesome proof. One of the missing people reported and unfound. The body lays what's left of it, contorted and mauled, mostly frozen, with crystal rain drops running over the white skin, and reflecting the dark red of dried blood. The pale white of the rib cage and hip bones are curving out of the demolished flesh.

Dean fingers long, blood matted hair, and decides it must be Brandy Hare, the only woman taken. He grimaces at the state of her corpse, obviously this black dog was no pup, he seems to enjoy tearing his victims apart. He sends up a low whistle to his father, and John appears by his side a few moments later. The eldest Winchester looking as grey and grim as the gloomy, rainy day.

John is of the same opinion as Dean. They proceed with caution, hoping to find a lair. But with the bad weather and it already being afternoon, light is fading fast. John whistles to bring Dean over to him. Even in the darkening woods, both make out the copper stained dirt and ferns leading towards an old ramshackle shed, surrounded by rusting barrels. Rotting pieces of tarp are slung over them in an attempt to protect them. The whole place generally looks disgusting, and like the perfect place for some rabid, supernatural beast to make a home base.

John and Dean circle the structure, taking note of the jagged hole torn in the bottom of the door. More characteristic of an animal than a werewolf. It was definitely looking like a black dog. Dean knows no hunting will be done tonight. Their scout out is complete. They know where to find the thing.

Now they go home, get a good night's sleep, study up a little bit more and clean the weapons. Make a stake out in the woods with hand guns and rifles loaded with silver tomorrow and then from there they wait for the thing to come out or come back in the guise of night.

He follows his father back the way they came. Each keeping his own council until birds are singing over them again, and Dean stops waiting for his father to join him under the tree where the squirrel had stared at him.

John comes to a stand still by his son, looking back the way they came, "Good eye Dean." He says, meaning the corpse he discovered.

Dean nods back in thanks, watching water drop from rain heavy branches reflecting the last ray of light. He follows as John starts the walk back towards the car. He feels some tension in the air, notices it in his father's shoulder's.

Dean is usually pretty on top of his father, his mood, his feelings. But John has lost him. He was just praising him, now...? He knows this feeling. Something hanging inevitable between them. It's always awkward, always hard as hell and...always, always, always about Sam.

He sighs deeply, stuffing chilled hands in his pockets and keeps his eyes on the way the wet ferns are soaking his pant legs, sending chills up his body. He's not looking forward to this.

"Dean?"

"Yeah dad?" He asks, looking up to try and read John's face.

"Sammy ever say anything about hunting? You think he wants to?" John doesn't look back again, leaving Dean kind of hanging.

Dean hesitates. Lying to Sam about their dad was one thing, but lying to his dad about Sam? Dean couldn't lie to John, he wasn't raised for it, it's not in his blood...or whatever. The two have been hunting together for a while now, they depend on each other's senses and instincts as much as their own. They depend on the other's and words and presence to keep loneliness at bay.

John may not be the best dad, but hell, if he isn't there when Dean needs him.

John stops at Dean's silence and waits for his eldest child to catch up to him. He studies his face carefully as he joins him. Dean stops before his father with his heart beating unsteadily, breath ripping though his lungs and leaving his mouth in white clouds, hanging in the air.

He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets and ducks ins head under his father's intense gaze.

"Dean?" John asks, wondering what the unusually guilty and...sneaky look is doing on his son's face?

Dean let's out a sigh, "What, dad?"

John looks at him sharply, raising his eyebrows, a hand on Dean's back leading him on the way back towards the impala. "About Sammy?"

"Oh yeah," Dean chuckles a little nervously, "Sammy and hunting." He shrugs, "I dunno dad, I mean it's Sammy, he gets what he wants, even from you so..."

John looks down at his oldest son, clever answer, he thinks.

"So," John watches Dean carefully, as they look at each other over the impala's roof. "He hasn't said anything?"

Dean freezes, what brought this on? Had Sam said something to John? "Has he said anything to you?" He asks, opening the door and following his dad's example of shutting his door against the cold and rain. And turns up the heat as soon as John cranks the car.

"I think I was the one asking the questions here," John rumbles out, sending Dean a stern look.

Dean gulps, "Um, I mean he's said a few things...he trains good, but Sam's just a kid, he still needs some time."

"I'll be the judge of that," John says, keeping his tone light, while pushing in a tape. "So a few things, huh? What's he say, he want to hunt?"

"Dad, seriously he's nine. If I told him suicide was in, he'd probably do it." Dean tries to calm himself over on his side of the seat where his heart is currently attempting to beat out of his chest.

"So your saying Sam wants to hunt, because we...you do?"

Dean says nothing.

"I just haven't said anything, because he never did." John says, watching the wet roads. "I was sure he'd say something when the time came, I didn't want to start him earlier than he was ready."

Dean looks down at his hands. He never meant to rob his father of information he needed, didn't want to take any part of his youngest son from him. (Though John would argue, Dean always meant more to Sam then his father. And he was probably right.)

John looks at Dean watching his face, seeing the emotion wash over it.

"You little bastard," he breathes out, and Dean winces. "He's been asking you this whole time, hasn't he?"

Dean bites his lip, and John lands a heavy hand in the middle of his chest across the seat. "Hasn't he?" John asks again, voice dropping, dripping with an unspoken threat.

Dean shrugs, "You never asked dad!" He burst out as an excuse.

John pauses, true. But still...

"He's been asking you to ask ME, hasn't he?" He asks, feeling even a little bit more anger bubbling up.

"What did you want me to do, dad?" Dean asks, finally losing it with all the questions. "My nine year old little brother wants to know if he can come along when we hunt down scary ass monsters eating people, and I'm just supposed to be cool with that?! Sam is too young!"

"That's not your call to make!" John returns, his voice rising. "You over stepped my authority, son." Silence reigns for a few tense minutes, with Dean feeling he's being rebuked unjustly. "You were younger than Sammy when you started hunting." John says, slightly calmer.

He knows the strength of his son's bond. He was the one who started the whole mess by thrusting his baby boy into Dean's arms, and then engraving into his soul, "Look after Sammy." It is Dean's purpose in life, it's the end he works towards. John actually respects that this commitment would cause Dean to keep something from him, but it still pisses him off.

"So why you? Why you not Sam?" He asks, pulling up in front of their room, but leaves the car on, as he takes in the way Dean's shivering a little.

"Because I'm me!" Dean nearly shouts. "I'm me, and Sam's Sam! He's not ready, dad."

"So what?" John asks a little more heatedly, "You worthy and Sam's not?"

John is amazed but the complete hurt look on his eldest face, the way his entire form slumps. "No," Dean says calmer, "No, it's not that...its just, he's smaller, and weaker and..." John watches as he can nearly feel Dean's heart race faster, and his breath getting shorter. "He is not anything like how I was dad, and he's just... He's just not ready!"

John watches the unexpected emotions pour over Dean's face in waves. Fear. Love. Insecurity.

John sighs, knowing his fears are being brought to life. There no way to remove Sam from this comfort zone without hurting Dean BAD in the process.

He gives his son a comforting pat on the chest, "You shouldn't have kept that from me, Dean." He says more gently, "But I think I understand why you did."

Dean looks up quickly, hope written over his features. John holds up his hand, to halt him.

"How long has he been asking, son?" He asks, deathly seriousness glinting hard in his eyes.

Dean swallows, "Since that vamp hunt in Virginia." He mumbled.

He watches John clench his jaw, and his hands fist around the impala's steering wheel. "Six months, you been keeping this from me for six months? And let me guess you been lying to Sammy too?" He looks at his boy in disbelief.

Dean says nothing, just looks down, and away out his window.

John knows an unrepentant soul when he sees one.

He huffs a dry laugh and shakes his head, "You know what? Whatever." Dean looks out his window as John climbs from the impala, and jumps a little as his dad slams the door shut. His red, dry, burning eyes turn to follow his father's figure through the pouring rain until it disappears into their room.

Dean hates not being in control. Hates, hates, hates it when it all goes spiraling out of his hands. He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. He decides to give his dad some breathing space, and heaven knows he could use some quiet time. The impala offers the perfect haven for his bewildered mind and soul that are having trouble catching up.

He lets his head fall against the back of the black leather seat. What is John going to do now? What is HE going to do now?

tbc...

PLEASE REVIEW! ;)

thank you


	3. Chapter 2

Happy International Fanworks day for everyone out there! We're awesome :)

Chapter 2.

Dean waits for darkness to fall. Watches the street lights flicker on one at a time. Lets the gentle lighting caress his tired eyes. He lets his muscles relax as he watches the raindrops chase each other down the glass of the window. The lights reflect in the little droplets, illuminating the window in beads of shining color.

He sighs, thinking he should go inside. He knows from experience there is no such thing as avoiding John Winchester. And Dean is cold, and wet and officially miserable in every way emotionally as well as physically. He needs a hot shower, some warm food, and then a quiet bed. Where he can forget about all this crap till the morning.

Who is he kidding? Dean won't be doing much sleeping tonight.

He sighs, climbing out of the impala and making a dash for their room through the rain. He slips the through the door, shivering a little and watching a few rain drops fall from his clothes to the carpeted floor. Only the lamp by John's bed is on, casting the room in its warm light a little eerily. Dean sighs a little as the sound of the shower on floats to his ears. A few more minutes at a least, before he has to come face to face with his dad again.

He's ready to admit he was wrong in keeping this from John, but apologize? Dean wasn't really all that sorry, just sorry it didn't keep Sam from hunting longer! He checks the fridge for leftovers as he shrugs out of his wet jean jacket. He hangs the jacket to dry on one of the chairs and kicks off his boots by the door.

It feels good to get out of the stiff footwear and pad around on the soft carpet in his socked feet. He decides to swipe some liquor while his dad is in the shower, and takes as much as he can risk without John noticing. He slips it under his bed in a water bottle he usually uses for this express purpose. Not too often mind you. John would notice.

Sometimes Dean just needs a break. Sometimes he just needs to distance himself from Sam, and John, and hunting. Needs to float a little while between sleep and half-wakeful visions of the blonde haired angel that used to sing him to sleep and feed him homemade pie and cut the corners of his PB&J...

Dean tries to look casual as his dad comes out of the bathroom. Not at all like the tension of their argument was bearing down on his soul, or that his apprehension for his little brother was about to make him blow his cool. He kind of lurks around the little table and closer to the door. John recognizes it as his older boy feeling threatened and probably just entirely too stressed out by the whole situation. He knows Dean's defense mechanisms will tell him to flee before John can get anything else out.

He runs the thin motel towel over his damp hair one more time, and then tosses it towards the bathroom door.

"Why don't you take a shower while I get us some supper?" He asks, trying to keep his own agitation out of his voice.

Dean recognizes it for what it is. Sam hunting and his lying is not up for discussion anymore, but his father as no hard feelings. Dean hates that because it most likely means John won't share his decision with the class, but also its relief. No apology or full on chick flick moment confession required...than you dad.

He says nothing on the outside, just shuts the bathroom door as softly as he can behind him. And goes through the soothing familiar actions of getting warm and clean and comfortable. He hears his father leave, shutting the door. The tension visibly falls from his shoulders, he lets the hot water run over the tense muscles, and let's his soul bask in the solitude. Alone...safe.

Dean would never wish to be alone permanently. He hates it, being left behind, not belonging to anything or anyone. But he has come to appreciate the importance of alone time, get in his head and assign places and feelings to every thought. When he finally climbs out of the shower and opens the door steam billows out. He smiles.

John walks in with a bag of food, and smirks at his shirtless son standing in the midst of the fogged up room.

"I take it you enjoyed your shower." He says with a little smile.

Dean relaxes a little more with his father's smile. And just shakes his head smiling as he digs a clean t-shirt from his duffle. He pulls it over his head and joins his dad at the rickety table and takes a deep contented whiff of the cheeseburger John got him. John hands him an order of fries and a cup of Coke.

"Thanks," he mumbles around a bite, and takes his food and sits on the floor against the little love seat in front of the age old tv. He flicks it on, letting the colors and sounds and flavors of his supper wash over him in their familiarity. This is all in control, it's all going to be fine.

...

The evening passes with mostly companionable silence between the father and son. As Dean expected they both take a look over the files, and share their last thoughts. Both clean their hand guns after having them out in the damp weather, and John collects their silver knives together, cleaning them until they shine.

Dean rolls his eyes a little at his father's obsessive cleaning, looking over to John's bed and nothing the neat way it's made up, and the man's only two pairs of shoes; boots and dress shoes lined up perfectly next to the bedside table. The military side of John will drive Dean crazy one day he's sure of it. But without it he'd probably be a miserable slob, he likes to think he's balanced with John around to keep him in check.

Around eleven, Dean decides he's ready to turn in, there being nothing all that good on tv. He brushes his teeth and uses the bathroom. He tosses the cover on his bed back, and sheds his pants pulling on a pair of socks and is about to slip into bed.

John is seated on his bed across from Dean, pulling on his boots. Dean watches as his father props his foot up on the opposite knee and ties his laces. He frowns, thinking for sure their little hiccup didn't trigger his dad for a drinking spree. Especially not the night before a hunt.

"Where ya going, dad?" He asks curiously, as John stands and gathers his wallet and keys off the table, shoving them in the pockets of his coat he just put on.

"Gotta pick up Sammy at the bus station." His father states matter-of-factly, like Dean hadn't almost cried his eyes out at the THOUGHT of Sam hunting.

Dean sits frozen staring at the man, his insides stuck somewhere between boiling with anger at his father and shaking with fear for his little brother. "Dad," he croaks out, "...you called him?"

John gives a patient but sure nod. "Yeah, he hopped the earliest bus for Milwaukie, he should be here in," he donated his watch, "About fifteen minutes."

Dean bites his lip and looks away from his dad. He can't help but feel hurt. He thought this was resolved. Sam wouldn't hunt, not this one at least. He thought that was what he and his dad had agreed on. But apparently no.

"I, I thought," he stutters.

"What'd you think, Dean?" His father prompts. "You lied to me and Sammy for MONTHS, you took something away that we both wanted, just because why? You were scared, not ready...you think Sam doesn't feel the same way? You think Sammy's not scared, think he REALLY thinks he's ready?" John comes nearer to his son and sits on the end of his bed.

"No, I don't think so, I know so. Hell, I'm never "ready" for a hunt!" His father lowers his voice gently, "But...he wants to be with us Dean. He wants to fight the good fight...you want to take that away from him?"

Dean looks down and away from John's piercing gaze, wrapping his arms around himself, making himself as little possible. John's heart aches at the action. He hasn't seen his eldest son do that since before Dean himself, started hunting.

"Dean..." His father urges, a hand coming to cover his son's bony knee. "This is the way it's going to be, this is the way it's MEANT to be. Me, you, Sammy...saving people, hunting things...the family business."

The excitement and feeling behind his words sparkle for a moment in John's grey eyes. They are met with Dean's expressive green ones. John must look away, as for the moment, Mary stares at him, sad and hurt and pleading. It's a moment John thought he wanted. For Dean to look at him unguarded like he used to when he was a kid and looked to him like he was the king of the world.

But it only makes all this harder.

John knows his son. But the two hunters keep their hurts and fears to themselves. As John looks into the eyes of his son he sees what makes Dean tick.

Sam.

John.

Love.

Loyalty.

But, so much fear.

God, John can't even hardly handle that HIS child is that afraid. And then he sees Mary, pleading for the innocence of her sweet Sammy, for the sanity of her first born Angel. Always she called Dean her Angel, whispered to Sam of the angel watching over him.

It was John's dearest wish after Mary died that their children would live this out. That Dean would indeed become Sam's guardian angel, that sweet Sammy would have his own personal protection. Now his heat sinks at the pretty mess he's made for himself, as the fear and guilt chase each other over the guardian angel's young face.

He is breaking what he has concreted in his son, he is ripping the seam out, and in the process he is going to break Dean. He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this now, he needs to fix this for his fellow hunter, for his friend, for his companion...for his son.

"Dean, Sam can't always stay nine years old, he's gonna grow up, he's gonna need to know this stuff. That's your job Dean, teaching him this stuff, having his back while he learns. Sam will change, it doesn't change you or the way you look after him.

"Sure hunting is a scary thing, especially dragging someone you love into it, believe me I know. But we have to prepare Sammy for this life, for the things coming." John pauses, waiting for Dean to either relent, or run and shut himself in the bathroom, or throw on clothes and storm out. The frozen devastated look on his face is not what John wants to see, or even something he can deal with.

"Dean." He says, softly, but firmly.

Dean stays still, he says nothing, gives John nothing.

"Hey buddy?" He questions, a hand coming to rest on Dean's arm. Using the pet name he rarely bestows on Dean...hardly ever really.

Dean jerks his arm away from John looking away from him, the father looks away to give his son some privacy as he hears the wet sniff.

"Dean. This is the way it's going to be."

"I'll go get him." Is the only answer he gets. The young voice sounding determined and...much, much older than John wants to think about.

"Dean," he starts. But his son is finally moving and showing him a hard set face, features and eyes closed off and distant.

"Dad." He drags his jeans back on, but stops to make eye contact with John. "I'm going." Dean slips his feet into his pair of sneakers, having worn the heavy works boots enough for one day. He kneels tying the laces with quick fingers. He pulls on his jean jacket, "You're welcome to come, but I'm definitely going."

John huffs, of course Dean's calling the shots now. Now that he realizes Sam's GOING TO hunt, he's going to damn well be there every second. John runs stressed fingers through his hair and scratches absently at the back of his neck, closing his eyes. This was so not how he planned on this happening. He didn't know what he expected, but not this.

Not Dean turning all doey-eyed and heart broken, and then suddenly all lethal determination, throwing on clothes and sending John hard, but oddly, understanding glares. John watches slightly in awe of the quickly changing emotions and moods in his son. He's always felt like an outsider when it came to the bond between his boys. Perhaps this is for the best. This will be good for Sam...but the alone time with his little brother? Even better for Dean.

Nothing calms his eldest like his youngest. John's often wondered what he'd have done with either of the stubborn jackasses if the other hadn't been born. John sighs, the hurt evident in Dean making him feel like shit.

"Whatever," he says again.

Dean sends him a humorless smirk as he walks out the door. His own son makes John sweat a little, he knows they have reached a turning point. He can only hope that Sammy will appease Dean and tide the two elder Winchesters over.

Dean shuts the door behind him and gulps a deep breath of clear, cuttingly cold night air. The rain has stopped and left behind a soaked world. The puddles are forming ice crystals at their edges, the pavement shines as the rain begins to harden and turn slick.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets after turning up his collar, his breathing dancing in front of him. The street lights twinkle off the ice and rain and he walks down the sidewalk alone on the mostly abandoned down town streets. The wind whistles around him, sending waves into the puddles that are unfrozen. He hears the cars passing somewhere on busier streets, knows somewhere on those busy streets Sam's looking out the window of a bus watching the buildings and people go by and buzzing with excitement and nervous energy.

He sighs and kicks a rock down the sidewalk ahead of him, letting the sound of it colliding with the concrete sooth his tumultuous thoughts and feelings. He reaches the bus stop. He leans on a tree, on the shadowed side, hiding in the low lighting. He toes at the crack in the sidewalk absentmindedly. Mostly thinking of what his father said to him.

It was selfish thing he had done. He can see that. But he had done it for Sam too. And he had done it for selfish reasons FOR Sam. Sam didn't know what was good for him, he was NINE. But his dad was right, he couldn't keep Sam from hunting JUST BECAUSE it was right. You had do things in this life, uncomfortable things. Everyone had to bite the bullet and just fight on. Sam did have to learn this, and it was a beautiful thing that Sam's heart was ready to sacrifice for the good of others.

It didn't mean that Dean had to like, or that, even though Sam thought it was, it wasn't a skip down the yellow brick road. Dean supposed his fears and nerves could be used for the best. They would make him more alert, and more attuned to Sam and his where abouts. Though Dean rarely had to worry about that, Sam and John were admittedly creeped out by his big brother radar.

He watches the bus pull up from his spot in the shadows. Watches a couple of college kids trip down the stairs and then a mother with her child. And then comes his Sammy, looking way too young and small to be on some shit bus by himself. He watches as his little brother hands a large overnight bag to the mother, obviously having been helping her.

Dean smiles, God, he loves that kid.

The bus' doors shut behind Sam and it pulls away. The mother waves to his little brother and walks away leaving Sam on the sidewalk by himself. Dean pushes off the tree and stalks from the shadows and into the circle of light from the street light with Sam. His little brothers gasps a little surprised breath, as he turns around to find his big brother so close. He should be used to Dean's silent, tiger-like habits by now.

"Hiya Sammy." He half mumbles. Not breaking the general silence of the street, as ever not too eager to draw attention to himself or Sam. He takes in the sparkle in his little brother's eyes, the general excitement and confidence. It's a new look on his down to earth sibling, different, good different.

Dean gives Sam the fond, indulgent smile he's expecting.

"Hey Dean." He returns, equally quiet. Sam might be a hunter yet, but he'd been raised by two to be one.

Dean reaches out a hand for Sam's back pack. The little brother relinquishes it to his big brother. He buries his cold hands in his pockets as Dean throws the pack over his shoulder. Sam matches his steps to Dean's, they slowly stroll their way down the street. Dean's in no rush to get back to the room.

Attuned to each other as ever, Sam feels the relaxed pace, but also the tension in his brother's eyes and between his shoulders.

"Dad good?" He asks, just in case.

Dean nods, "Yeah he's fine, just thought I'd come get you myself."

Sam nods, that's no surprise. He's too young for it to make him feel anything but loved (being babysat), but old enough to know something has taken place between the oldest Winchesters. John had said HE would pick him up, and that Dean was anxious to see him, all that was normal.

However as he watches his big brother, he sees something new there. There is the expected loving glint, the soft smile, the helping hand that takes the back pack from his aching shoulder. But Sam knows discomfort in his brother when he sees it. He can read between the lines like a pro. JOHN called him, JOHN instructed him where to go, JOHN said he would pick him up...and DEAN was anxious to see him?

Sam's not an idiot. And he knows what it feels like to be forced into something by John Winchester. He wants to hunt, but he also knows if he didn't want to, he still would be once John got it in his mind. Looking at his brother, he knows something has gone down. But he thought Dean was vouching for him hunting. THOUGHT.

Now watching the quiet, thoughtful way Dean is leading him towards the motel, he's certain things are not as they seemed. His brother is kicking a stone down the sidewalk, for once taking his time to do something. Seemingly enjoying being out in the OPEN in the dead of night.

"You didn't want me to come, did you?" He questions softly.

Dean looks at him sharply, but takes his time answering, toeing the rock around the cement for a minute before sending it flying into a drain.

Sam smiles.

"Score."

Dean smiles too.

"What makes you say that?" He brother questions, sighing as they start up their slow pace again.

"You and dad have obviously fought," Sam says matter-of-factly. "Dad won, of course," Sam smirks, and Dean sends him a sour look, absolving into a bitter smile.

"Dad won so...he wanted me to come. Which means, you must have NOT wanted me to come." Sam cocks an eyebrow at Dean, and sends him as much as a wry smile as nine year old can.

"It's not that I don't want you here, Sammy." Dean starts, "Its just..."

"I now you don't think I'm ready..." Sam gushes, "...but I am Dean, I'll show you, you'll be so pr..."

"Woah tiger," Dean chuckles placing a hand on his arm. "It's not that I don't think you're ready either, it's just..." Dean stops walking all together and looks around miserably before looking down his little brother's big, questioning, soulful eyes, which are reflecting the street lights.

"I don't want to see you hurt, Sammy." He says sounding desperate, running a hand through his hair. "I can't see you hurt and..." He takes a deep breath.

"Dean," Sam says gently, stepping up close to him. "People get hurt, good people, we have to do something about that. Even the best of hunters get killed, get hurt. You can't protect me from everything."

Dean huffs a laugh, looking away from his little brother and waiting for the dampness to leave his eyes.

"So you never even asked dad?" Sam's asks, sounding like he already knew the answer.

Dean gives a dry laugh, "Dad told you?"

Sam chuckles, the childish sound pulling a smile from Dean. "No, but it kinda felt like convincing you more than dad."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean says looking down, "I just..."

Sam shrugs, showing some wisdom for his age, "In your shoes Dean, I can't honestly say what I would have done either. I love you." He wraps is little, gangly arms around Dean's middle, resting his forehead on Dean's chest.

Dean sighs deeply wrapping one arm around Sam's shoulders and the other around his head, cradling it against his chest. "Love you too, Sammy."

Sam smiles against his brother's jacket.

"If your done sulking around out here, can we go inside now? I'm about to freeze."

Dean cuffs him in the back of his head, ruffling his hair and pushing him away fondly, "I'm not sulking." He defends, picking up his pace at the thought of Sam being cold.

"Yes, you are." Sam says, he laughs, "Dude, dad's not gonna magically disappear or something."

"Whatever," Dean huffs, "Let's go right now, c'mon, it wasn't even that bad of a fight."

"Whatever," Sam repeats his brother, smiling as he wraps his arms around one of Dean's and thrusting his hands down into Dean's pocket along side his own hand. "You're so warm." He nearly hums.

Dean laughs, "C'mon, let's go get you inside and warmed up."

...

Beside him Sam's breaths have evened out. Dean pulls the covers up higher around his chin, rubs a foot along Sam's little ones at the end of the bed to test their temperature. He smiles when Sam kicks his cold toes away in his sleep, whimpering at Dean's chilled appendages. He snuffles into his pillow, burrowing down deeper in its soft depths. A hand creeps to press against his big brother's side to insure Dean's still beside him.

Dean sighs as his little brother's fingers tangle in his shirt. It's a sweet gesture, one that Dean loves, one he looks forward to when they share a bed. He remembers his father's words and he knows he can't be Sam's security blanket for ever. He knows he can't always be there, he can't always stay with Sam. Sam can't always drag him around. (Though Dean doesn't really mind.)

He gently detaches himself from Sam's sleepy grasp and sits up looking down on him. The lights dancing over his smooth, white skin. The way he turns towards Dean as he shifts the bed with sitting up. Dean pushes his bangs from his eyes and back, the love he has for Sam fills his heart with an ache. He bites the side of his mouth to ground him and frighten away the tears and panic rising in his throat.

He slips from the bed, he and Sam are now sharing, and to the floor. Elbows on his knees, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. He sighs, that helpless feeling of being forced to accept something you disagree with rankling in his stomach. This wasn't the way he imagined things, wasn't the way he wanted them to be. But he knew he is powerless to change it, to stop it.

He reaches for the bottle he had stashed under the bed early, quietly opening it, he presses it to his lips as he leans against the bed, letting his head fall back. The warmth and sting are welcome sensations to his strangely numb body. He smacks his lips quietly and sighs, finally something he wants to feel flooding his nerves.

Warmth.

Control. He controls how much he drinks.

The burn. He chooses to feel this pain, he likes it.

Everything else is out of his hands, Sam is out of his hands now, and it makes his stomach roll in trepidation. He tosses back more liquor, gazing at the ceiling and watching the lights from cars passing my outside dance over it occasionally. But no matter how much he drinks, or how much he likes the burning pain of it washing down his throat, tomorrow is still rushing towards him, uncontrolled.

tbc...

PLEASE REVIEW! ;)

thank you


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

Dean woke on his back, staring at the water damaged ceiling of their motel room. His back and neck hurting, and feeling like he caught a permanent chill and probably lice from the age old carpet. He groans and rolls over before pushing himself up on his hands. Sam still lays sprawled out on their bed hugging Dean's pillow to him, only his brown mop visible among the sheet and comforter.

Dean sits down on the mattress, leaning against the headboard. He pulls some of the blankets up over his legs and up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. God, it was cold in this freaking room. Sam snuffles in his pillow and all Dean can do is sigh when his little brother fists his fingers around the hem of his t-shirt.

John comes in the door, kicking his boots against the mat and then the door jam, trying to rid himself of ice and mud. He shuts the door shivering, and sees Dean awake and watching him.

"It's nippy out there," he says, sitting coffees and a greasy paper bag on the table. Dean is very aware that if its this cold inside, it must be miserable out. He braces himself against the draft of cold air from his dad's entrance, he shivers when it finally reaches him.

John opens his coffee, taking a satisfying sniff. "What's up with you and the floor last night?" He asks, giving Dean a questioning look.

Dean shrugs and inches closer to Sam's warmth. "It sure was cold down there." He supplies as answer.

At the other two's talking Sam stretches and yawns. His eyes peep open and and he gives a sleepy smile to Dean who looks down on him.

"Mornin'," he grunts out, mid stretch, with his arms above his head.

"Mornin', Sammy." Dean says.

"Y'all boys come eat, and then Dean, you go over the research with Sammy, I'm going to go and pick us out two good stake outs. Me on the inside, you boys on the outside." John makes sure to give Dean a reassuring smile and nod. He might not agree with his son's methods but he understands and respects the feelings that he himself has created and encouraged.

Dean returns the nod and scrambles out of bed, having eyes only for coffee. Sam follows him a little less eagerly, still yawning. He grabs the sausage biscuit John passes him and squirts jelly packets onto it. Dean grimaces, as he pours Texas Pete on his. Currently drowning in the comforting scent of fresh coffee he only nods to his father as John heads out with a duffel bag in tow. He sighs a little relieved when he's gone. There's still a little tension.

"So what about this research?" Sam asks, around a mouthful of biscuit, jelly lining his lips.

Dean chuckles, "Hold up professor, let's at least finish breakfast and get dressed, then we'll drag out all the paper work."

"Okay," Sam nods, licking his fingers and then rises, going over to his bag. He changes right there in the frigid room, with Dean looking on in distaste. He's still shivering and breathing in warm steam from his cup of coffee. "C'mon Dean," Sam urges standing in the middle of the room dressed and waiting on his sibling who hasn't even moved.

"Gimme a few, Sammy," he mumbles, rubbing hands over his face. Probably not the hottest idea to drink straight liquor the night before your supposed to brief an excited Sammy on a case, and then later actually do a job. Sometimes he worries himself.

...

Dean briefs Sam on the hunt, letting him look on his own through the police files and pictures. He shows him all their lore on black dogs and a couple drawings they'd found to help them identify the beast.

"Here Sammy, you see?" He says, pulling out one of the crime scene photos and pushing it under Sam's nose. "The most damage is done to all the left sides of the victim, proving its after their hearts, but also that it likes to attack from the left. That's something good to know. You need to keep your eye out, but now we know we have to watch our left REALLY carefully." He emphasizes the "really".

Sam is drinking all this in. And Dean has no doubt his brother's brain is stashing it away for later. They spend the day getting ready, Dean cleaning his gun, talking to Sam the whole time, trying the give Sam every single piece of information he has gathered hunting along side their father.

All the lessons he has learned through pain and blood he hopes Sam won't have to. That he has learned for both of them, and that he could just tell Sammy about it. After all John had told him a lot, but he didn't know everything. Dean had been learning new things from the very first hunt he had partaken in. He stashes these lessons away, determined he'd never be so weak again.

About four in the afternoon John came in wet and cold, and a little grouchy. Dean gave him a wide berth, but Sam shadows him as his father goes over the research and his own gun. John humors him, but Dean could tel it was getting on his nerves.

Dean jerks his head over in a sign for Sam to join him sitting on their bed, as John studies a map of the woods he had acquired. Sam comes over and sits bedside his elder brother and looks at him expectantly.

"Sometimes dad just needs some time before a hunt, get himself geared up, you know?" Dean tells his little brother, who in turn looks at John with big eyes.

"Dad's the hunter," Dean says, softly, "We're there to learn and to have his back, that's it."

"Dean," John says suddenly, standing straight.

"Yes sir?" Dean answers, standing and walking to join his father.

"Want you to make sure that hand gun Bobby gave you a few years back is ready for Sam. It's small enough. And both you boys should have a silver knife, got it?"

Dean nods, "Got it, dad."

John fishes the impala's keys out of his coat pocket. "Here, don't let anyone see, get that gun out of the trunk."

"No one'll see," Dean assures, already nearly out the door. Sam goes to follow, but John stops him.

"He's got it, Sammy." He says. "So," he motions to the paper work spread out before him, "You get all this?"

"Yes," Sam says patiently, "Dean THOROUGHLY brainwashed me."

John chuckles, "I'm sure Dean was thorough," he thinks for a minute, realizing how little he's done to prepare his youngest for his first hunt. Yet he feels no worry.

"Well," he sits down and gives Sam a reassuring smile. "Dean's just trying to make sure you're ready, Sammy, he's worried about you. Probably as worried as I should be and more."

Sam seems to understand this, he gives a light laugh, looking out the window to where he can see the trunk of the impala propped open. The love in his heart lends a far away look to his eyes and John is amazed again by the glimpses he gets of their bond. Sam glances back his father, not entirely shielding the feelings he has for his brother from view.

"As long as Dean's around you don't gotta worry about me." Sam says, a happy smile lining his lips.

John almost says it's a parent's job to worry, but then he rethinks. If it's a parent's job to worry Dean's doing a far better job at parenthood than himself. In a rare moment of wisdom John Winchester decides to keep his mouth closed. He finds himself nodding as Dean walks in with the small hand gun.

Dean sets out the gun cleaning materials and makes quick work of taking the gun apart and thoroughly cleaning it. Sam leaves John in favor of resting his chin on Dean's shoulder and watching him work on the gun, asking questions.

Once Dean is finished he loads the handgun with silver bullets and leaves it lying on the table. He pulls Sam over to their bed and layers clothes onto his little brother's body...hunter's armor. After jerking a pullover over his head, Dean gets in a few tickles while his brother is handicapped by tangled sleeves.

Sam tries to wriggle away from Dean's fingers, while pulling on the garment the rest of the way. "Dean!" He gasps breathlessly, falling onto the bed and trying to kick his big brother away with his legs. Dean just begins his tickle assault on Sam's bare feet, laying his own body over Sam's knees pinning him down.

"No, no, no," he giggles, writhing around under his brother trying to get free, "Ahh, dad help!"

"Boys, let's stay focused," John offers as help for Sam. Dean gives a finishing tickle to Sam's feet and then rises, and casually pulls a couple of pairs of socks from Sam's bag.

Sam lays gasping on the bed still calming his giggles.

"My feet feel raw," he whines, finally sitting up. Dean smirks and throws the two bunched up pairs of socks at him.

"That's why you should wear socks, princess." Dean snorts, pulling on an extra pair of socks himself. It's freezing and wet outside, it was well on its way to being a miserable night. He pulls on another flannel shirt and a pullover of his own. He'd be damned if they were cold tonight, not on Sam's first hunt.

He knows all to well the way the cold makes your hands shake and messes up your aim and vision. And that's without nerves. He wants Sam to be just as well prepared to protect himself as Dean is to protect him. He pulls on his boots and then winks at Sam as he slips a sliver dagger down his sock.

"You too Sammy," he says, offering him a knife, blade cradling in his palm, offering his baby brother the handle. Sam pulls on his socks and boots and then slips the dagger down his first sock as well. Looking to Dean to make sure he did it right, Dean nods and pats him reassuringly on his knee.

Dean offers him one of his heavy coats, since Sam's jacket is pretty thin. Dean rolls up the sleeves with a fond smile on his face, and then pulls his jean jacket on over all his layers. John is clothed and still leaning over the map as he tucks his gun down the back of his jeans. Dean takes Sam's beanie and pulls it over his head covering his eyes and laughing rubbing his covered head.

Sam huffs and pulls the hat up from his eyes, elbowing Dean in the side. John sends them a look, eyebrows raised. He smiles at their appearance, makes a mental note he'll forget to by Sam a winter coat and Dean a hat.

"You boys set?" He asks.

"Yep," Sammy rocks on the balls of his feet excitedly.

"As we'll ever be," Dean mumbles under his breath, getting rewarded with John sending him a shrewd look.

They file out the door and Dean is shivering with the cold even before John has the door shut behind them. It's freezing cold, the bitter wind slipping into any openings and biting through their clothes like a real bitch. Sam gives a shiver, but by the time he's in the impala's back seat the cold has given him two apple red cheeks. Unlike Dean, whose freckles now stand out against pale, white skin.

Dean shivers on the seat beside his dad as they send muddy slush flying behind the impala's spinning wheels. Dean turns on some music, classic rock, so John doesn't mind. It's Dean's custom now to listen to something soothing before a hunt. He knows what helps him focus the most, and right now, he needs every thing that can be in his favor to be.

Truth be told the cold and wet is not sitting well with Dean. Not only does it make for a miserable hunt, but he can feel the freeze settling right in his chest with feeling in his throat like he swallowed razor blades. Granted Dean never did particularly well with ANTARCTIC weather, but the stress seems to be telling on him too. He quickly wipes a drop of snot from under his nose with the sleeve of his Jean jacket.

God forbid John deem him unfit for Sam's first hunt, or worse, Sam find out and tell on him, albeit, with good intentions. He turns and gives Sam a smile as they speed towards the woods. Sam is excited, the energy buzzing through his veins. He's waited for this moment it feels like his whole life. What was it his father had said, "Your a Winchester, this is the way it's meant to be."

And nine year old Sam believes him, for now.

The car came to a stop in the same muddy dirt road leading into the woods that Dean and John had used the day before. The early winter sunset had already sunk below the horizon and night was descending on them fast. With the lack of light, the cold blanketed over everything cruelly, John shivers as he unlocks the trunk and props open their weapons cache. The boys appear from the gloom to stand by him.

"Dean, you looked at that map real good, right?" John asks, loading a rifle with silver bullets and then slinging it over his shoulder, tugging on the strap to make sure it was secure.

"Yes sir," Dean replies, his hand running down Sam's back to ensure his gun is there, tucked in the back of his jeans.

"Okay," John takes a deep breath, "We're not that far away from each other boys, I'm just closer to the building." He places a hand on each of his sons shoulders. "I'm guessing it's bedded down in the shed since the weather's been so bad, but, if it's already out and about, I'll bet the fight comes to you boys first."

Dean nods firmly, taking a flashlight from the trunk and tucking it into his jacket pocket.

"Alright, you boys be careful, and Dean?" His father stops before taking the last few steps into the gloom that will hide him from view.

"Look after Sammy." Dean finishes, feels the importance of what John has done. Sam and Dean are together on this first hunt, Dean knows it wasn't an easy decision for John, but he made it anyway. Dean is just as convinced as John that Dean and Sam are both safer if they're together.

Dean can just make out Sam's epic bitch face in the darkness as John disappears. He places a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, "C'mon," he says, keeping his voice low. He leads them into the black woods, not even a sliver of moonlight to light their way. He desperately wants to grasp Sam's hand and lead him into the dark forest, confirming he's there by touch.

But Sam's not a baby anymore and Dean knows both older Winchesters are already pressing their luck with all the coddling and protection he's getting this time around. Dean can't help but be grateful to John, he's taken care to make sure Sam's protected, and what he hasn't taken the time to do, he knows Dean will. The whole situation has not gone like Dean wishes, but he can hardly hope for a better scenario.

Into the woods they lurk, and Dean leads them, mostly by memory to the spot designated as their stake out by John. He knows full well it's very close to the carcass he discovered. What is left of the scent of the dead girl will hopefully cover theirs.

Sam keeps his eyes on the barely there moving shadow of his big brother's back. He's brother glides through the woods so quietly if he couldn't see Dean he'd have no idea he was there. He concentrates of making his footsteps just as light and silent. He feels excited and powerful slipping through the trees so quiet and by his big brother's side.

He is not afraid. Dean is with him, and maybe it was a foolish child's confidence...but it was true he had no reason to worry. Dean would be torn to pieces a thousand times over before any sort of evil bastard got their claws in Sammy.

So Sam simply feels exhilarated, the humming in his veins warming him to the point where he doesn't even feel the cold. The adrenaline is giving him a pleasant shaking in his hands, the white clouds of breath ghosting from his mouth and nose floats in front of him even as he walks through Dean's. The last bit of light disappears and they are well and truly plunged into darkness.

Dean's senses heighten as soon as they step into the woods. As noted before, he hates woods, the forest. His worry for Sam, and his general bitterness towards the hunt makes him all the more alert. He's aware of Sam behind him, the only sound he can hear in these traitorous woods.

It's understandable that Sam's not completely quiet yet, he's doing admirably, Dean smiles at the whispered curse that floats up to him when his little brother trips on something. Dean halts and stretches his hand out to find Sam in the night.

His little brother's hand finds his, "You good?" Dean whispers, leaning to put his lips against Sam's ear.

Sam nods, "Yeah, I'm good."

"Stay close," Dean instructs before pulling away and starting his silent stalk again.

Dean drops to his knees in the place their father has prepared for them. Tree limbs have been dragged around it to create some sort of blind, he laughs soundlessly at the bed of fern leaves John has left on the forest floor for them.

Sam joins him and they are FINALLY still. As soon as the sound of their own movements leave the boys, the silence come to sit heavily on their ears. Dean finds himself continually pushing his hearing to its limit trying to pick up any sounds, any warnings. The tension in his body is so tight it's nearly hurting. Beside him Sam stays stock still, pressing into his side, which is fine with Dean since he's about to freeze to death.

The minutes stretch on and Dean settles a little more, risking the few seconds of sound to interfere with his hearing. He reaches behind him and pulls out his colt, holding it sideways on top of his thigh, away from Sam. His fingers adjust their hold on the handle every few minutes, his muscles pulled taunt and tight under his skin. His hand snakes down to his boot to feel the reassuring shape of the silver knife there.

He doesn't know why he feels so uneasy. John is right, the black dog will most likely come from his direction. Therefore John will take him down with his rifle long before the bastard is even twelve yards from them. But Dean knows to go with his gut. His gut tells him to be ready, to apply every nerve and sense to being aware of his surroundings, of Sam, of John, and, of the black dog somewhere out there.

Just as his fingers wrap around his colt's handle, tighter again, a shot rings out, a rifle shot. He hears the bullet thud into a tree. Another shot. Dean pushes Sam to the ground even as it whistles over their heads.

"Dean!" John shouts.

His father's voice rips through the blanket of silence. Dean's on his feet in a breath.

"Dad!" He yells, peering into the dark.

"I missed!" John shouts back in warning.

"No shit," Dean mumbles, cocking his handgun, and looking around in flurried movements. It only takes a matter of milliseconds for Dean to scan around them in circle. No black dog, no movement.

Sam is still kneeling close by his feet, Dean's heart constricts with adrenaline and worry.

"What direction?" He shouts over to his father.

"East!" John yells, and now Dean can hear something, boot falls on the forest floor. Their dad racing towards their location, Sam rises to his feet.

The moment of distraction costs them dear, he jerks himself towards the east raising his gun, grasped in both hands, even as something catches his eye. The ferns part for something huge and black barreling towards them...towards Sam.

Dean's breath sticks to his throat and everything seems to slowdown for him. He sees the wild blood vein streaked whites of the creature's eyes, the long, saliva dripping canines revealed in its snarl at them. He sees the way it pushes off the ground with his powerful back legs in its last jump before it hits Sam, and it's lethal jaws wrap around his soft, slender throat.

In the last second Dean wraps his hand around the back of Sam's neck and pushes him down and away, while leaping between evil and innocence. The breath is entirely knocked from him as the mass of black fur and muscle ram into him, his back colliding with a tree trunk, his head snapping back and dragging against its rough bark with the extra weight of the black dog behind it.

Sam is just about to yell at Dean for his rough handling, because sticks are cutting into his knees and stomach and hands, when he fells the rush of air rock past him, and then he hears Dean grunt like he's been hit really hard in the stomach. Pushing up on his elbows he looks behind him to just catch the tail end of the horrific sight of his big brother being crushed against the tree trunk with a HUGE black creature against him. He hears the dull thump of his brother's head against the wood, sees how the dog's jaws click together in empty space, missing their intended victim...himself.

So this is a black dog, he thinks, even as he rises, tossing away his handgun, knowing he can't shoot for fear of hitting Dean. He reaches down in his boot and jerks the silver dagger out. Before him both beings come out of their daze and then everything comes a confused scramble in the darkness. He can barely make out what's Dean and what's black dog, other than an occasional flash of jean. It all takes about four seconds.

Dean shakes himself, trying to clear the fuzzy buzzing from his head and ears. He hears the click of the beast's jaws too, and his hand finds the the thing's neck, fingers digging into the fur coated flesh. He's only slightly aware of Sam's hurried movements, as he knees the dog in the stomach repeatedly trying to snake his other hand down his leg and to his dagger wielding boot.

Sam races over to his brother and the black dog. He kicks the creature with all his strength exactly where Dean was kneeing it, next he throws himself against the dog's top half and they both slip off Dean just to his side. Sam sees its teeth close around the jean of Dean's jacket, all he can think is; much too close bitch.

Sam's silver knife finds the black dog's throat unerringly. He buries it in the sinewy muscle with vengeance and then jerks with all his strength carving a wide hole in its neck. Blood gushes out, spits a little from the messy hole, all over Sam's little hands. In a heartbeat, true to his training, Sam pulls the knife from its throat and buries it once again deep in the chest of the black dog.

With a twist and a sickening sound, Sam looks up into the face of the animal he's killing to see if it is dead or not. He is met with gently glowing, red embers for eyes that are slowly ebbing away. He realizes even as he presses his weight on the knife driving it further into the thing's heart that this is life, this is life he is taking. He is destroying...

The dog goes lax under him, the eyes go dull and unfocused on his face. It is over. Sam's first hunt.

He is a killer now.

Sam jerks himself away from the carcass feeling like death is a germ he is catching. He is unsteadily upright in a second looking down at what he has done. Even in the darkness he can make out the glisten of blood on the forest floor, still bubbling from the gaping hole, still seeping up and out around the handle of his dagger...on his hands.

He stumbles, leaning against a tree, and empties his stomach into the dead leaves.

John had run up on the scene breathing erratically and fear turning his heart to ice. He told himself exactly what he knew would happen. Dean would push Sam to the ground and then he would fire on the black dog, or use his silver knife. It would all be over before John got there.

Instead he finds his eldest laying dazed and nearly unconscious on the forest floor and his youngest jerking his knife from the GIANT black dog's neck and plunging it deep into its heart. Seeing the downwards blow, he knows the black dog will never survive silver to the heart, he is on his knees beside Dean in a minute.

Two fingers pressed into his neck feeling for a pulse, the other hand feeling for the slick of blood. Dean groans and pulls himself upright using his father's arm as a ladder.

" 'M good," he mumbles, a hand rubbing the back of his head and then his chest as he takes a few deep breaths. His eyes immediately seek out his little brother.

He watches the contents of his baby brother's stomach spill out on the ground, watches as Sam wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, that is now spattered with dark blood...as are his shaking hands. Dean reaches for them, using his grip on them to pull Sam down to him.

"Sammy, you good?" He asks, still a little breathless. "You good?" He repeats, seeing the wide blown pupils of his brother's.

Sam rouses with his brother's hands on his face. "Sam, are you alright?" He is asking.

"I'm alright," he says softly, one of his hands searching out and finding Dean. He tangles his fingers in Dean's pullover under the battered jean jacket. "You, you alright?" He follows with immediately, eyes scanning down his big brother's body. He just killed for Dean, he BETTER be alright, or at least alright enough to live.

"I'm alright," Dean says, he looks at Sam and takes in all the signs of shock. Shaking, blown pupils, slurred words...

"Hey, hey," he soothes, "C'mere," he pulls Sam down into his arms, wrapping him up, pressing his still very much alive body next to his. Assuring both of them their still alive.

He pretends he doesn't feel the tears against his neck, just cradles Sammy's head there. "You did good," he whispers, "Can't believe you, Sammy, did so good."

John heaves a few relieved breaths, watching his son's comfort each other. He chuckles after Dean's whispers.

"When I said your first hunt, I didn't necessarily mean your first kill. Nicely done, Sam." He says, a hand coming to rest warm and heavy on his shaking youngest's shoulder.

He doesn't understand why he deserves Dean's sour glare.

He stands and walks over to the black dog looking over the gory piece of work. He supposes it should bother him that his innocent, nerdy little nine year old was spurred into this violence when his brother was threatened. But all he manages to feel is damned proud.

Dean coaxes Sam to stand on his shaky legs. Dean isn't the most steady he's ever been either, he prays for no concussion, but his head hurts like a bitch. And it's cold, so freaking cold. And that's no good for Sam. Sam needs warmth and and stability to fight off the shock. Noting the way he's shaking and his eyes take on a haunted look every time he sees his scarlet coated hands. Sam's a brave kid, Dean knows, they now have full proof, but Sam's also a happy, loving, trusting kid.

Dean knows Sam never thought through this part of hunting, the part when you end life. The part where you spill warm blood all over your hands and clothes. Blood that was just coursing through something or someone's veins. No matter what creature it is, or how bad a person it is, taking a life is always a terrible experience for Dean. He can't imagine what's going on in Sam's head right now.

When Dean gets a thorough look at the black dog his own supper threatens to spill out. Oh my god, his little Sammy did that? His little Sammy did that for him? He swallows thickly and wraps his arm around Sam's shoulders more tightly where his little brother is still trying to hide from the whole horrific scene in Dean's neck.

"You got the body?" He asks John.

John nods, "Yeah, burn it, and I guess the whole damn shed."

Dean nods, "See you at the car?"

John nods, handing Dean the keys and finally looking understandingly at Sam. He'd caught Dean crying his eyes out a few times after his first kill. He knows it's not go to be any easier for Sam. He runs his calloused fingers through Sam's soft tresses of hair since it's the only part of his face and head that's not hidden against Dean.

"Hey Sammy," he soothes, "You did the right thing, you saved Dean, you saved a lot more people too."

Sam raises his head a little and nods, giving John a tremulous smile.

Dean gives his dad a nod and then points him and Sam towards the car. He pulls out the flashlight he brought with him and turns it on illuminating their path a little. He can concentrate on Sam and getting him to the impala safely now instead of listening and straining his eyes to find their way back.

Dean has never been so glad to get out of woods when they break the tree line. He all but runs him and Sam to the impala. He unlocks the door and sits Sam down on the seat, his legs hanging out.

"Sammy," he says softly, "You good? Here, look at me, let me see how you are."

Sam raises his wet eyes to Dean, red coated hands shaking in his lap. Dean has seen that look before. Seen it in the mirror. His heart breaks for what he knows his little brother is going through. He bites the side of his mouth, to keep his own tears at bay.

"Hey," he whispers, "It's okay, I promise." He pulls the snaps on Sam's blood covered coat open and strips it off his little brother. "Look, I'mma make it all go away, okay? It's alright." His thumbs wipe tears away from under Sam's eyes, he throws the stained coat behind him and into the mud.

"I, it's on me, Dean," Sam manages out shakily.

"Okay," Dean says gently, "I'm gonna take care of it, okay?" He assures, "Just hold on." Dean jerks a water bottle out from under the front seat he'd left there early and unscrews the lid. He pulls Sam's hands off his lap and in between his legs. He pours half the water over his hands, knowing the cold water has to hurt like a bitch.

Of his own accord Sam starts to scrub the blood from his skin, rubbing his hands together and using his nails. Through tear blurred eyes he can still see the condemning hue against his skin. He needs it gone, he needs to not be a murderer anymore. The cold air, the cold water and the way his hands were already freezing causes agonizing pain, but he keeps it up, feels as if he will never be clean.

Dean watches for a moment, but finds he can't let it go on. He knows how much it must hurt, sees the angry, desperate tears cascading down Sam's cheeks, knows he can't let this go on. He's on his knees in the mud, in front of Sam in a heart beat. It gives Sam pause when his big brother is suddenly in front of him like a miraculous savior.

"Woah, woah," Dean calls halt softly, and Sam looks at him confused. "Your hurting yourself Sammy, let me." Dean's thumbs work the dampness into his palms and the wrinkles of his knuckles. The warmth from Dean's fingers seeps into Sam's skin, the color lessens until he can only make out a slight pink. "It's alright Sam," he soothes, "It's gone, it washes away, okay?"

He pours some of the water out into Sam's cupped hands and then into the bandana he retrieves from his pocket. He brings the damp cloth to Sam's wet hands and gently rubs until the skin is clean and glowing pink from the friction and cold.

"There you go, see? I got it." Dean takes each hand in both of his at a time rubbing them and blowing on them, trying to bring some warmth back.

Sam nods hesitantly, shivers coming more violently, as he lets go of the adrenaline, coming down from the high. Dean opens the trunk and gets out the old scruffy blanket there. He helps Sam into the back seat wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

Sam's hands latch on his pullover as he tries to move away, "Where're you going? Don't leave me," Sam stutters out through chattering teeth.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," he soothes, a hand cupping his chilled cheek, thumb rubbing some warmth into his cheek bone. "Just gonna turn the heat on, alright?

He runs around the impala and cranks her up, turning on the heat, without a second thought he selects the tape he always knows the location of. Never knows when he's going to need it next, so he always has it ready. Dean started using music as therapy a long time go.

Hey Jude washes over the insides of the impala as Dean joins his little brother in the back seat. Baby keeps the cold out, gives them some warmth. Dean's arms around Sam lulls him into belief of safety, Sam's arms around Dean gives him a delusion that this thing can work.

It's the wet sniffling that brings Dean out of his dreaming.

"Sammy hey, what's up?" His fingers gently push hair away from Sam's face.

"Can't never go back, Dean," his brother cries into his shirt.

And Dean knows, he understands, so he bites his lip and let's the unshed tears burn his eyes. Can't give life back, can't remake innocence, it can't be undone...

tbc...

PLEASE REVIEW! ;)

thank you


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

John pours all of his lighter fluid out on the large, fury corpse and enjoys giving it one last kick as he scratches his matches to spark and the fire whooshes to life over the deceivingly innocent looking layer of white salt. The flames rise angry and hot and John holds out his cold hands, rubbing them together. God, what a night.

The weather had been vindictive almost, and John was VERY suspicious. He hated being subject to such fear and suspicion but he had no doubt in his mind this had been a very meaningful night in his youngest son's life. And he hated to think what it could mean for him that the very weather objected.

John shakes his head free from the gloomy thoughts, though standing alone over a burning carcass what kind of thoughts are you supposed to have? He uses his boot toe to kick a hole in the soft ground. Dean had done well, better than John had expected, since honestly the whole thing had been a bitch for him. But Sam had done even better. Had embraced it like a pro.

Sure his reaction to killing was stronger than Dean's, but Sam was a gentle boy, loving and all smiles. But the black dog had hurt Dean, that had given Sam full, clear conscious to brutally kill it. It showed a sense of justice, an anger that had to be appeased. A wrong had to be righted, Sam wanted blood for blood. That reflected his passion, the strength of his personality and character. Sam would not be denied justice.

And that was why the black dog had to die, bloody and gruesome. It attacked Dean, it threw him into a tree, narrowly missed tearing his throat out. And Sam wouldn't have that, Dean wouldn't be taken from him, he wouldn't stand for it. So the black dog died. John saw the stubbornness and determination that it reflected from his son's soul, and he knew that he and his youngest had more in common than he once thought.

Dean believed a wrong could be made right...by a right. That's not the way it works, John thinks. A wrong merits another wrong. Blood is repaid in blood. Death is rewarded with a death. THAT is justice.

That is Winchester justice.

Dean was one of the finest, damnedest hunters John knew and the kid was only thirteen, with his instincts and seemingly perfect marksmanship, his commitment to the innocents, and his pure hatred for the evil sons of bitches. But Dean, bless him, had inherited Mary's delicate features, telling eyes, and, even softer heart. Mark John's words, Dean's heart will be his ruin.

John and Sam's hearts...well, let's just say, they got what they wanted or else there was hell to pay.

(John didn't take into account what this meant for Mary or Dean. But one can hardly blame the man for not looking that far ahead...or behind can we?)

Basically...the hunt had been a success. John smiles over the bones crumbling to ash, and thinks proudly how his young son is a hunter now. He doesn't think how he was forced into it to save his brother's life. Doesn't think how maybe the reason why Dean is so good is because he's trying to save his little brother. Doesn't see any other future, only sees...saving people, hunting things, the family business. Sammy's so good at it, how could he ever want anything else?

Dean would never leave them, he loves them so. The loyalty to him and and loving protection to Sam make John sure. Sam was John, younger, but still hungry for justice and blood. They would be together, they would be hunters...they would be Winchesters.

...

Beside him in the back seat of the impala, Sam is still shivering. He had drifted off a little but now he jerks awake clutching Dean's pullover in his tiny fist. His breaths are a little fast, but Dean knows his brother is calming, will soon be drowsy and ready for a full night's rest. All the excitement and adrenaline and crying takes its toll and Sam will be sleeping deeply quicker than he killed the black dog.

But in the mean time he needs to comforted, he needs to be held close and precious. Dean can see Sam growing up and out of this cuddling in a blink of an eye now that he's begun to hunt. Damn it, this will change everything, he is sure. He finds his arms snaking around Sammy tighter, his chin coming to rest on the tousled mop of hair.

"Dean?" Comes the muffled question.

"Yeah buddy?" He answers, a hand coming to push the hair from his face as Dean tries to catch a look at it.

"I did good?" It's slurred, not quite coherent, Dean thinks he's mostly asleep, but it warms the eldest Winchester brother's heart right up. John might have given him approval, Sam might have seen the evil beast killed himself, but he still wanted Dean's assurance.

"Yeah, you did." He comforts, pulling him even closer, "Ya' did good Sammy, I'm proud, knew you would make me proud."

"T, tried," Sammy stutters out through still slightly chattering teeth, Dean rubs up and down his arm vigorously for a moment to generate some warmth.

"Always do, kiddo," he whispers reassuringly. "Always make me proud." He mumbles into Sam's hair, before pressing a kiss to his ear.

Sam cuddles deeper into Dean's chest, slowly feeling better about himself and what he's done. He's in Dean's arms, he's safe, Dean's safe...he's okay. John is proud, impressed even, maybe. That could be discussed, but Sam's ready to delay that debate for another day when Dean isn't so warm and firm behind him, and when his burning, puffy eyes are winning the losing battle to stay open.

"Thanks Dean," he whispers.

"Anytime, Sammy." Dean returns. Head resting against the back of the seat as soon as he feels Sam relax against him again. Deep breaths, he tells himself, everything is going to be fine. This is all under control. Sam wasn't a killer, he just wasn't. He had acted for Dean, had spilt blood for Dean. Had sullied his soul and hands to protect Dean. And Dean can't help the sick, guilty feeling rising in him. But also a little proud, a little extra loved. Sam would kill for him, Sam trusted him to be worth the blood he spilt...without a second thought.

And damned if he wouldn't be.

...

The cold slowly recedes from Dean's numb bones bringing a warm tingling and buzzing to his frozen skin. It's then that he feels it. At first it's just an annoying itching that won't go away and worsens with the heat. He doesn't want to move at the risk of waking Sam so he bears it out. It isn't until he feels something warm and slick running down his arm towards his elbow that he realizes maybe that black dog had got him more than he thought.

Shit.

Just what he needs. (Being deeply sarcastic) Blood and pain, equals more trauma for Sammy. Which they did not need. This reflects on his state of mind while hunting, and that he did not need John to see. Now that Sam was hunting Dean had to be in EVERY fricking gig EVERY fricking time. He can do it, he can stand it. He's been through much worse than anything life could dish out to keep him from a hunt, keep him from Sam.

Time passes on as Dean waits for John to return. The warmer he gets the more feeling is returning to Dean. His arm is now on fire, it feels as if someone has branded him. He shifts a little, biting his lip at the pain. Slowly and gently he shifts Sam just a little, so his forehead rests on his chest and not his shoulder. He reaches across his littler brother's body to his other arm.

His slips shaking fingers into the tears in his clothes, he knows the exact minute they come into contact with the wound. One; his fingers are immediately coated with warm wet, two; the enflamed pain that washes over his left arm and side of his body. A hiss slips through his lips before he's even aware. He finds his fingers sliding through the slick, hot gouge in his arm.

He feels the size of the wound, grimacing at the depth. God, he hates bites. When those bastards sink their teeth into you, they shut their mouths and lock their jaws and then they rip out the flesh. He thinks, seriously, it must be the most painful way to hurt someone or kill them. He'll stand by his conviction that the teeth wielding baddies are the worst.

And boy, does Dean love some good old fashioned vamp hunts, or werewolf for that matter. Loves to chop those heads off, loves to empty his clip into a wolf's heart and then carve it out to salt and burn and bury the ashes. That might sound a little sadistic, but for real, those teeth.

It's how Dean comforts himself, as his heart beat exhilarates, breathing through the pain, as he sits under his littler brother's sleeping form. Thinking about taking him down some vamps or wolves, or hell, even another black dog looks really good right now. It's how Dean deals in general, turns the hurt and pain into anger, into determination...into something useful. Something he can use against his enemies, against the bad guys.

Dean pulls his fingers out of the wound rubbing his fingers together hoping to remove the tackiness and tell tale stain. He wipes it off on the inside paneling of his jean jacket, fingers of the other hand carding lazily through Sam's hair. It should probably worry him how calm he takes discovering a pretty deep and heavily bleeding wound on his arm. But as it is he is happy to wait for much needed medical attention until the job is done and Sam is home safe in bed.

His tape has ended now, so he steadies himself and keeps Sam company by humming the comforting tune under his breath. Keeping his breathing in time with the humming is helping him focus and stay calm, even as he feels more warm blood run over his skin towards his elbow. Damn, he hopes it doesn't soak through.

Sam rubs his face deeper into Dean's chest in his sleep, his fingers flexing and releasing in Dean's pullover, but not letting go all the way. Nor is the almost imperceptible frightened-sounding whimper lost on Dean. He smiles as it fades out to be echoed by a contented sigh. The warmth of which spreads from the surface of Dean's pullover, through, and down into his heart.

...

John tosses the shovel into the back of the impala, after responsibly laying his rifle down in their weapons cache. He sees Dean startle a little through the windshield when he slams the trunk closed, smiles when he sees the dark, tousled head resting against his chest.

He walks around the car and opens the door. Sighs with relief as he sits and the warmth closes around him when he closes the door. He rubs his hands together for a second to warm them, blows some warm air on them. He slides the impala out of park and sets his hands on the wheel.

"You boys good?" He asks over his shoulder.

"Yeah, we're good," Dean answers, keeping his voice down. "You finished?"

"Yeah, it's done." John answers, his and Dean's eyes meeting in their rear view mirror. John can't help but notice the finality in his son's gaze. As if more than just a simple hunt is done with, something bigger. As if something more important is done with and thrown away.

Dean can't help but be annoyed with the flippant way John asks them if their good. For god's sake, Sammy was asleep in his arms only after crying himself exhausted. HE, most assuredly was good, he was always good, as the blood still seeping from the wound in his arm attested.

But its the sinking feeling that something has died in his little brother that causes the finality in his eyes. Dean knows a little piece of Sam's innocence as been lost tonight. A little piece of him. A piece of him that he was never meant to lose, or break. He was never meant to kill anything. Never meant to have his life and Dean's in his hands, never meant to be supposed to save them. And Dean can't help but feel like a failure. Feels like he should have been more alert, somehow...more.

He feels like he should have been strong enough to kill the black dog and protect himself and Sammy. Even feels as if he should have known already what direction it would take. He knew it would come for their left sides. He heaves a big sigh into Sam's hair as John backs the impala out of the muddy dirt road and pulls out onto the highway.

He knows now, after his first hunt, Sam might be different to himself now, be different to John now. But to Dean Sam will always be the same. Will always be the innocent that he himself sacrificed all of his innocence for. It's true. Dean let go of the childish part of him, let go of conscience hate of blood and gore, of cold and pain. He let go of his own education, his own future, gave himself over to John and his crusade.

Did it for Sam. So that his little brother could hang on to all those things. Could be innocent, could throw up at the sight of blood and death. Could be a child, could dream of brighter horizons, could work at his education so he could obtain those dreams. He paid that price, he'd be damned if Sam's innocence was so ruined that he gave up hope like Dean.

Gave up hope of ever knowing something else, gave up just because he felt he was too dirty, and too different to be worthy of anyone or anything else. Dean would preserve that self-pride and confidence in his little brother, so that someday when Sam's chance came he would feel worthy. And he'll go.

And riding there in the impala, holding Sammy in his arms he knows it's going to hurt like hell. Knows when it happens it'll be the Hiroshima of the Winchester family...but he knows for certain, Sam will be brave enough, will be taught to fight for himself.

Because bottom line that's what Dean teaches him. Doesn't matter what it's for, doesn't matter who it's against. Sam should always know he is worth fighting for, and he should know no one is going to fight for Sam except Sam. No one knows what Sam wants, what Sam needs like Sam does.

And all though it kills Dean to think he won't always be able to fight for Sam he knows that's the price. Dean Winchester will soldier for his father, but with the silent, blooming hope that Sammy will be free someday. The hope that Dean will be enough and that the blood lusting Winchester line will be content with his.

He will never hate his father for being his unwitting task master, or the one who enslaves him in this losing battle, on this road ending in only one way. Dean's heart is filled with a rare unconditional love, for John, for Sam. He understands both their needs. He does his best to achieve both things. John needs revenge, John needs to avenge Mary. And Dean figures that this deal is good. He remembers and loves his mother, that bastard should die. Sammy should have what he wants. It's just the way Dean sees it, and though Sam might think he wants to hunt, Dean knows his heart is not there, knows the discontentedness that shadows his little brother's young heart.

Sam WILL go someday...and Dean will have to let him go.

Dean is shaken out of his reverie by the impala coming to a cruel stop in front of the motel room. Seems John is more than anxious to call it a night. Dean scrubs a hand down his face and over his burning, dry eyes. The back door squeaks as it opens and John leans in gently, shaking Sammy awake and taking his hands to pull him off Dean and out of the car. Sam complies while sending a sleepy glance over his shoulder.

"Dean?" He asks.

"I'm commin'," Dean assures with a tired smile on his face. "Right behind you." He adds, more to himself.

John leads Sam to the door and bends to unlock it, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to climb from the car, and have a moment to collect himself. The world only spins momentarily, though his stomach doesn't recede it's rolling. He swallows thickly and hisses when his jolts his arm. He prays to whoever may be listening that the blood hasn't soaked through all the layers of his clothes. With pleading eyes making a silent petition up at the moonless and starless sky, Dean makes his way to the motel room door left open for him.

"Sammy, you get first shower," John is saying, already flipping through his journal, looking for his page about black dogs so he can write down whatever revelations he had. Dean doesn't really get the whole journal thing. You kill the thing, and you burn it, what else is his dad going to write?

Sam is making his way to the bathroom rubbing his eyes. Dean follows, but stops off at Sam's bag to grab clean clothes. He leaves them on the closed toilet lid.

"Sammy, got you some clothes here." He says over the running water, he hears something mumbled between 'thanks' and 'alright' and then he leaves the bathroom after fishing out Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste.

When Sam comes out of the bathroom in a matter of minutes, still rubbing his eyes, Dean is having doubts about his washing job. But it can't be helped, his little brother looks dead on his feet. Dean jerks the blanket back from their bed, making way for Sam. He's rewarded with a soft, sleepy smile as Sam climbs up onto the bed and rubs the side of his face into the pillow after he flopped down on it with a slight 'oomph' of air.

"You go 'head dad," Dean says, nodding towards the shower.

John grunts his thanks, closing the bathroom door behind him with a handful of clothes.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed on his side, looking over at Sam, who is rolled facing him, eyes coasting open and closed lazily.

"Hey Sammy," he whispers, "You feeling better?"

"Yeah, I feel better." Sam says, just as quietly, talking, honestly, would take too much energy. "You sure you're alright?" He mumbles, "It hit you pretty hard, heard your head." Dean watches smiling as Sam's eyes close and stay shut even as he asks the question.

"I'm fine, little brother." He returns, a hand pushing that too long hair away from Sam's face one last time.

"You coming, right?" Sam asks, already sounding slurred and asleep.

"Yeah," Dean says, hand patting him gently on the chest, "I'll be in in a bit, gotta shower."

Sam hums and Dean watches as the tendrils of sleep wrap the rest of their way around him. His little body entirely relaxes against the mattress, his breath becoming gentle and regular. His hands release their tight hold on the sheets, though the one is still reached out towards Dean.

Dean sighs standing, walking to the mirror hanging on the back of the closed bathroom door. He fingers the torn cloth of his jacket, angling his body so maybe he catch a look at the mauled limb. He grimaces even at that slight pressure his fingers give, he finds red coating his fingers once again, he rubs them together, feeling the warm slickness.

"Gotta take care of this bitch first," he says to himself grimly.

tbc...

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	6. Epilogue

There's another version of the following scene in the Prologue at the beginning, also this will be wrapping up the present day story at the beginning of the Prologue with Dean and Sam burning a black dog's corpse and remembering Sam's first hunt...just in case anyone needs a reminder. ;)

Epilogue.

It wasn't until Dean was sure John was sleeping that he finally shut and locked the bathroom door and started peeling layers of clothes off his cold, clammy skin. The sweat had broken out on his skin a few moments after Sammy had slipped into peaceful sleep. Dean didn't want to know if it was because of blood loss or the fact that he was feeling pretty rotten on top of all this. Dean Winchester never did anything half-assed, including getting hurt or getting sick.

After breathing through the agony of stripping himself of the layers of clothing from his top half, he uses the t-shirt to wipe his nose. He can feel the familiar resistance in his chest when he breathes, which meant he was getting a cold, which, if Dean would tell the truth, was quite often. The cold was a bitch to Dean, he always somehow managed to get an annoying little cold. (Do we want to know Dean's definition of 'annoying little'? Probably not.)

Dean figures running around in near freezing temperatures and rain at night isn't really conducive to good health, so what the hell, fair enough. Better him then Sam for sure. Thank god, Sam seems to have a stronger immune system. So Dean just sighs, swallows around his burning throat, and opens up the first aide kit. He threads a needle, and lays out bandages. He readies himself for the expected agony as he grasps his shaking hand around the bottle of holy water and gets ready to wash out the wound.

He grits his teeth and watches in weird fascination as the holy water burns and steams in the raw, angry red wound. He tries to detach himself from the burning pain, it feels as if the holy water is eating out what's left of his arm. He continues to pour the holy water over the wound until it gives no reaction. Washing a wound out with regular water was excruciating enough, but holy water was millions of times worse. It was alive, it sought out the evil and wickedness from the black dog's saliva and teeth and burning it out. Most of the time Dean was of the opinion washing the wound was worse than receiving it.

Being patient and quiet wasn't really Dean's thing. He bit back the grunts and growls of pain, and only let out whispered curses as he slid the needle in and out of his skin to bind it back together. As ever nothing seemed to be on his side.

Stitching up the gap in his arm brought him back to his thoughts of Sam and hunting, of how close this came to being Sam. Being Sam's throat. And there was no stitching up a bit out throat. He tries to comfort himself with the fact Sam is alive and safe just on the other side of the door. But he finds himself swallowing back vomit to no avail and leans over to the toilet just in time for it spill into the water.

This is not going to work, Dean thinks bewilderedly, there is no way for me to protect him all the time. Protect him from everything. He can't seem to catch his breath, even after he's finished throwing up. He's pathetic, he thinks, the pain isn't even all that bad, he's shaking and hyperventilating, just from these half fevered thoughts, he can't even take care of himself.

Through blurring vision he throws out a hand to pull himself to his feet on the sink vanity. Instead his fingers wrap around the edges of the first aide kit, sending it plummeting towards the bathroom floor.

Oh my god, Dean rolls his eyes at himself, you can't even stand up right.

Before he thinks he reaches out, lightening fast to catch the box. His hand closes around it, catches it. Regrettably, Dean doesn't often take time to think. Before he can berate himself for this second mistake the mind numbing pain sends him crashing to his knees, throwing up again in his own lap.

He squeezing his eyes shut against the spinning room and the black spots dancing across the moving circles that is the small bathroom. He grounds his forehead into the wood paneling of the side of the sink vanity trying to keep himself conscious and present, glancing towards the now even messier wound. He reaches and grabs his t-shirt, gritting his teeth as he presses it to the wound, seeping up the blood bubbling up from the ripped out stitches.

He hisses at the pressure and breathes deeply, or tries. His slowly raise his head, looking up to the ceiling as if for some heavenly revelation or help. Fingers run through sweaty hair, letting some cool air hit his scalp, letting some cool air hit his face. Breathe.

That's when his world comes to a screeching halt, all by one little sound. A tentative knock coming from the other side of the door followed by a little, sweet voice.

"Dean?"

...

Sam had slipped off into a nice dreamy state of sleep as soon as Dean had given a loving pat to his chest. He new Dean wouldn't be in bed for awhile since he still had to shower after their dad got out. He let himself drift off blanketing himself in the comfort that Dean would be with him soon. He left that one arm stretched out towards his big brother's side of the bed so he would know when he climbed in.

Finally warm and feeling safe, Sam drifted in and out of awareness to their motel room. He heard John come out the bathroom, heard Dean going through his bag. Felt John run fingers through his hair with a gentle, "Good night Sammy." Before he climbed into his bed and flicked off the lamp. He drifted off again after that, thinking Dean would be with him soon.

Floating along dream clouds of 'Hey Jude' and Dean's warm arms, Sam was jerked out of his pleasant dream by a cold rain and a snarling black dog with glowing red eyes nightmare. He lay on his back under their covers breathing deep for a few moments. Hand unconsciously searching across the mattress for Dean after a bad dream. The bed was still empty.

Sam turns onto his side facing the bathroom door, sees the light leaking from underneath it. He must have not been asleep that long he figures. He yawns a little into his pillow, hoping Dean is coming soon. The safe presence he brings always scares away Sam's night terrors. Sam tries to calm himself focusing on the little line of light at the bottom of the bathroom door.

Visions of the black dog ramming into Dean and crushing him against that tree flashes before his eyes. He hears the thud as Dean's head smacks into the trunk, sees those large, cruel teeth snapping in thin air, tangling with Dean's jean jacket. He shivers, tries to comfort himself with the fact Dean is alive and safe just on the other side of that door.

Using the line of light as a point of focus, Sam calms himself slowly. Blinks tiredly, yawns as sleepiness returns to him, adrenaline rush dying from his nightmare. He really wishes Dean would come back, his eyes coast slowly closed, opening again to find that little line of light leaking out into the room. Then he hears it.

Something not quite normal, not supposed to be there. If he didn't know better he'd say it was the sound of someone being sick. He listens carefully for a second, and all is quiet again. Then the clatter of something reaches his ears, the whispered curse, heavy breathing, and another sickening 'coughing up' sound.

Sam's heart stills for one moment, then races on to attempt to beat from his chest. He's out of the bed ear pressed to the thin wood in a moment, quicker than he killed the black dog. Silence is all that reaches him, accented only by the sound of harsh, fast breaths.

Dean.

Sam's entire soul is wrapped in fear in a split second. He hates it when Dean is sick, hates feeling so powerless. He waits hoping Dean is alright and will come out to bed and be alright. But silence is all that follows, so Sam decides on a soft knock, hopefully not waking his father.

His small knuckles rap on the door, "Dean?" He calls softly.

He is answered by nothing but silence, his heart constricts a little in fear. "Dean?" He asks again, not even hearing the way his voice cracks, reflecting just how afraid he is.

Though its not lost on Dean who is leaning against the sink vanity breathing through his nose in and out trying to calm himself enough to answer Sam. He can't think of anyway to make this look less bad. There's blood absolutely everywhere mixed with his vomit, great way to freak Sam the freak out.

He scrubs a hand over his mouth breathing deep, still clutching the t-shirt to the wound. He sighs.

"It's alright Sam," he calls back as even as he can, and as quiet. "I'll be there soon, just gotta finish cleaning up."

He stares at the floor, his clothes and the angry looking bite mark. No shit.

"Are you okay?" Sam whispers against the door, which in any other setting would have been adorable.

"I'm fine," Dean grits out, even as he peels the bloody shirt away from the wound to look at it again.

He watches as the door handle wiggles and he hears Sam trying to turn it. Good thing he locked it.

"Sam, I'm fine," he says again, a little louder. Because he is hurting, hurting bad. He can hardly see the door handle, he's intently trying to stare at it to make sure Sam not picking it, it is circling around and around.

He shuts his eyes tightly against the vertigo.

"Dean let me in," Sam urges. "I know your sick, let me in, I can help you."

Damn, Dean thinks. He wasn't as quiet as he thought. But blood is still running down his arm, his stomach is still rolling painfully, his head isn't helping things, frankly that concussion is coming around he thinks. And it is cold, like really ass cold, on this floor. But he doesn't think he's going to be able to get himself up, doesn't think he can do anything much really.

He's starting to doubt he's going to be able to stitch the wound up another time with passing out. Even as his brain works overdrive to work this stuff out he realizes he most definitely needs help. He can't do this on his own, not when he can't even see straight. And he supposed better Sam than John, John would just ask him how he could have been that stupid.

So he uses the last of his strength to rise on his knees and and unlock the door. The movement causes some serious dizziness that ends with him swallowing heavily and leaning against the wall, still holding the bloody tee to the wound.

Sam waits in the quiet. Praying Dean will let him in, will let him help him. He hates it when Dean is sick, but he hates it even more when he shuts him out, tries to keep him out of his problems. He hears the heavy, fast breathing even on the other side of the door and knows his brother is feeling pretty bad. He wonders how he didn't notice, but supposes Dean was so focused on protecting him he probably didn't even notice feeling bad himself.

Then he hears the door unlock, he turns the handle himself and opens the door. Relieved that Dean lets him, trusts him. The sight that meets his eyes is terrible. Dean on the floor, white as a sheet covered in that horrible brilliant red substance. The acrid smell of vomit meets his nostrils, but Sam could care less for the mess as he reaches for Dean.

And even though he's terrified of the blood he's on his knees in front of him in a second.

"Oh my god," he breathes. "Dean, what happened?" He asks, a cool hand resting against Dean's hot, dry cheek.

Dean lifts heavy eyelids to stare at Sam from under them. He can see the terror in Sam's eyes, but...now that Sam's here Dean's hazy mind thinks it can let go, thinks everything is taken care of. His hand slides away from the wound, the t-shirt falling away. Sam gasps over the wound his hand hovering helplessly, shaking as much as Dean.

"Wha... I thou," he stammers, "It didn't get you," he says, sounding much less certain than he would have liked. "No, no, no," he whispers, tears coming to his eyes. His little hands cup both of Dean's cheeks, "Look at me," he commands, "It's okay, you're gonna be okay."

Inside he's not so sure. He's screaming, he'll be okay, he is okay. Inside he's falling apart, Sid young at the pain in his brother's eyes.

Dean's eyes lift up to Sam's one last time before they glaze over, and the lids slide shut over them. Sam's heart stops in his mouth, desperation momentarily numbing his mind as his big brother slumps forward into him. Sam catches his full weight against him, trying to wrap his arms around Dean but his brother slides down his body until Dean's head rests in Sam's lap, his body curled awkwardly the way he fell.

Sam sits shocked for a moment, absolutely terrified, his hands holding his brother's shaking form to him as much as he can. What was he supposed to do? He asks himself. Feel for a pulse? Lay Dean flat? He watches as a drop of blood drips down Dean's arm, through a lot of the already dried substance, it's soon followed by another, and then another.

"Dad!" He wails.

...

John had been sleeping peacefully. It was one of those nights when he actually felt he had done a halfway decent job, and he was rewarded with deep sleep. No dreams, no bad 'feelings', just honest to god sleep. Both his boys had been alright, and all had been well.

Sam's terrified scream jerks him right out of those comfortable depths. He's up, gun cocked and raised, readied, before his eyes are all the way cleared of sleep. All is well around the room, still dark. But his boy's bed is empty and the light in the bathroom is on. He jumps up and swings the bathroom door open without so much as a word with his gun raised.

The sight that meets him is his youngest kneeling on the bathroom floor, his oldest child face down in his lap. Dean's form crumbled and laying at an odd angle. Sam looks up at him tears making wet tracks down his face.

"Help him!" he tries to demand, but it comes out more like a plea, a sob breaking out of his throat, his little fingers digging into his brother's flesh in an attempt to bring him closer. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. He killed the black dog, he saved Dean. He is bewildered by the entire unfairness of the situation. How can life be this wrong? How could it repay him for ending an evil life by wounding a good, strong person?

John is momentarily stunned by the terrifyingly beautiful sight in front of him. Both his son's stained with the red, life giving substance. Sam's little body leaning over the bigger form of his brother. Trying to touch and protect every part he can. Dean unconscious and wounded, the wound he had taken for his little brother.

The absolute fear filling his little boy's eyes clues John in on just how much Dean actually means to Sam. As he stands there he watches the change come over Sam. The miserable tears keep coming, but every muscle in his body tenses and the lines in his face harden.

"Help him!" He barks out, voice immediately breaking into a sob afterwards, but, it shakes John from his shock.

He kneels beside Sam slipping his hand under Dean's chest and gently flipping him onto his own lap face up. The fingers of his other hand seek out his son's pulse. Finding it steady but maybe a little too heavy for his liking. He feels the heat coming off Dean and frowns. He hadn't noticed him getting sick.

"Here," Sam says, his own fingers slipping in the blood on Dean's arm. John takes a look at the wound, hissing through his teeth, getting a good view. It was ugly alright, though Dean seemed to have cleaned it. An uncleaned black dog wound would have been angry and red by now.

He looks up to find the container of holy water he knew he'd find near by. He spots it on the floor.

"Sam," he motions towards it, "Get that bottle for me." Sam grabs it up in both his shaking hands and gives it to John who in turn pours the clear liquid over the wound. There is no reaction, though Dean shifts a little, his upper lip lifting in obvious discomfort. John hums in satisfaction, knowing Dean cleaned the wound thoroughly himself. He strips the soiled jeans off his son and throws them remotely towards the bathtub. He gathers Dean up in his arms and rises, leaving the bathroom.

"Turn on all the lights Sammy." He instructs, laying Dean on their bed, slipping a white towel underneath the bleeding arm and going back for the first aide kit. He threads a fresh needle and readies himself. He catches Sam squirming in the corner of his eyes and finds him watching them with a doubtful look on his face.

"Sam, c'mon over here." John says, and takes his son's hand pulling him closer. "Dean's gonna need you." He said quietly, motioning towards the bed. Sam climbs up and settles himself as close to Dean as he dares get without hurting him. He wraps one of Dean's hands in both of his smaller ones and holds it tight, watching with big eyes as John begins his first stitch.

...

When John lifted Dean from Sam's lap, Sam felt distinct panic that he had to shut down. It felt wrong letting Dean be taken from him when he was hurt. He is trembling with fear as Dean just lays limply in John's arms. His heart is so afraid, afraid if he loses his brother... afraid of a life without his brother, can't even picture it. He does as his father commands him, an eye on Dean at all times.

Dean's reaction to the holy water scares him, but the lack there of does too. He's so used to Dean being alive, and moving, and taking control of the situation, that his brother laying so still goes against his very conscience. All he can think in his confused young mind is this is wrong, this isn't the way it's supposed to be.

He killed the black dog so Dean would be alright, he thought that was a fair trade. He's now coming to realize life isn't fair. No one cares about a fair trade. He had tried so hard yet Dean still got hurt. Dean had tried so hard, yet he still had got wounded, despite all Dean's planning he still had to jump in front of Sam to save him. Still had to do the unexpected even in a safe zone.

And why had he hidden his wound? Why had he said nothing about feeling sick? Even Sam's young mind knows the answer.

For him.

And now looking down on his brother's pale body laid on their bed, the velvet blood still seeping down into the towel he knows the truth. Life may be unfair, but hunting was even more so. He spilt blood, he gave up his innocence to save Dean, yet in the only scenario in his life where he would have Dean's blood on his hands it was there.

He looks down now finding the red substance coating his hands again. The tears are streaming down his face even as he grasps Dean's hand tighter as his brother groans through gritted teeth when John pulls the needle through his skin. Dean's fingers wrap around his like vices that will never let go, smearing the bright red liquid between them.

He's not sure when Dean woke up, but he knows as he looks into his big brother's pain blown pupils that are staring up at him, knows he cannot do this. Knows he can never dedicate himself to a cause that does this to Dean. Doesn't matter how evil the thing is that he kills, doesn't care how many innocents he saves. If Dean gets hurt, if Dean's precious blood ends up on his hands then it's not worth it.

And he'd been there, he'd been the weakness. The thing Dean had been so intent on protecting that he'd thrown his own well being to wind. He couldn't justify it. It was the only way in this god forsaken life that Dean's blood ended up on his hands, ended up being his fault. This was hunting. This was the thing he'd wanted. This was the ugly, hard thing Dean had tried to protect him from.

He shudders with the sickening noise of the needle sliding through the mutilated flesh, grinds his own teeth together at the way Dean grips his hand and sobs a breath as tears stream down his face. John is going slow and steady. Stitching up Dean's arm with near perfection. Does Sam even want to know how many times father and oldest son have done this? Does he want to know how many times Dean's had to have done this to John?

John finishes the last stitch, leaving both boys gasping with tears making cooling tracks down their cheeks and burning unshed in their eyes. Dean turns to look at his arm and the sewing job, giving his dad a stretched, but thankful smile. He turns to his little brother, his other hand still held in Sam's. Sam takes in Dean's pupils which are shrinking and growing with the light...also noticing the different size between the two.

He opens his mouth in alarm but Dean beats him to it.

" 's okay, S'mmy," he whispers out on his strained vocal chords. "Jus' from the concussion." He explains, sighing, but that brings on a cough that aches and burns in his chest. "N'thing a little sleep won't fix." He gives an extremely worried and stressed looking Sam a tired smile.

"'S okay S'mmy," he mummers again, pulling his little brother towards him again.

" 's okay, 'm right here, not going anywhere." The look in his eyes before he closes them will haunt John for ever.

Dean hugs Sam as close to him as he can with one arm, he closes his eyes hoping it can shut out the gasping, desperate sobs Sam is crying into his shoulder where he is hiding from the truth and reality of this life he's pleaded his way into.

"I'm sorry Dean," he says over and over, "I'm sorry, didn't know, I didn't know."

Because as much as he feels that hunting must be the worst thing. As much as he can never imagine having Dean's blood on his hands again he knows this feeling is what kept Dean from letting him hunt. This was what he was trying to protect Sam from, this was what he was trying to protect himself from.

This was why he was so scared, why he had lied. Why he had stood the wrath of John Winchester just to try and keep something from happening. Sam now knows the desperation and fear Dean had felt. That he felt now, that ruled his life. It now ruled his own. That guilt, the love that tore his heart when Dean was hurt, when it was his fault...they each had to live with that now, they both had to learn to live with the fact that blood was on their hands, would continue to be.

Dean presses his hand to the back of Sam's head, holds h closer, and turns his own head to whisper in his ear. "It's 'lright, S'mmy," he comforts, "We'll be 'lright, just get it out Sam, it'll be better in the morning..." He whispers sweet promises into his little brother's ear, tries to distract him.

He knows it's hopeless though when Sam's arms wrap around his neck, pulling him more tightly to him. Dean can see the rusty red color on his skin, sees the red stains in and around his fingernails and his heart leaps into his mouth, his eyes fill with tears. Now what Sam has been muttering into his shoulder through tears and sobs makes sense

"Dean...never wanted your blood on my hands."

...

Present Day.

Sam drops his hands from Dean's wounded arm and takes a step back, looking down at them. The firelight glistens off the redness on his hands, off the redness on Dean's skin. It sparkles in their eyes as their gazes meet. The flames crackle in the silence, the wind echoes after it, howling a little. Dean catches Sam by the wrist pulling him back towards him.

"Sammy, it's okay," he says quietly, smiling, eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above. He hands his little brother a bandana.

Sam looks at him questioningly.

"Wrap it up, just until we get to the motel room, then you can go all stitch ass crazy." Dean quirks his lips into that smirk and Sam finds himself smiling too.

He takes the bandana and carefully wraps it around the bite, tight enough to hopefully help stop the blood flow but not tight enough to be a tourniquet. He gingerly pulls Dean's shirt and jacket back on his arm and over his shoulder.

"Okay," he breathes, "Good?"

Dean nods, "Perfect." He gives Sam a genuine, full Dean Winchester grin, and claps him on the shoulder with his good hand.

They stand gazing at the fire for a few silent moments. Dean leans towards his brother confidentially.

"Maybe black dog's are more of a sensitive subject than I realized." He says, keeping his tone light, eyes dancing in the firelight, laugh lines wrinkling his face.

"Yeah maybe," Sam grins, "Especially considering I had to save you from one AGAIN."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Whatever, if the bastards would stop taking chunks outta me they wouldn't piss us off so bad."

"Ain't that the truth," Sam agrees grimly.

"Hey," Dean says softly, knocking their shoulders together. "Wasn't your fault, now or then."

Sam purses his lips, unintentionally creating a bitch face. "Yeah," he muses, not looking at his brother.

Dean's seen Sam like this before. Remembering things often makes Sam depressed and quiet. He wraps his hand around the now bandaged wound to give it some pressure. And tries to catch his little brother's eyes.

"Sammy, no one can control these things, no one can predict them. You can't hang on to 'em, gotta let it go little brother." He urges gently.

Sam shakes his head, "I was so scared Dean," he says softly, "All I could think was that hunting had done that to you, to me. I didn't want anything to do with it, ever again. I let that one hunt shape the way I looked at you and dad and hunting and I wanted nothing to do with it." He gives Dean a sad smile, "I didn't even realize that a part of hunting is being there for your partner, looking after them. I never even realized that I could change things. Never even thought to stay behind just to have your back when you gave up everything so you could have mine."

Dean gives him a doubtful fond look, "You did though, just took you a coupla years. You had to take your own road, Sammy." He says softly. "I understand that, I respect that."

He laughs, eyes shining in the light, warming Sam and giving him the joyful reassurance Dean holds nothing against him. Leaving, disowning him.

Dean laughs dryly, "And as much as I'd like to call dad buckets of crazy, we both ended up here. Side by side, hunting evil sons of bitches. Kind of like that's the way we were meant to be, just like he said."

Sam chuckles too, "I never believed him."

"Me neither," Dean returns, handing Sam the shovel and getting himself a beer from the cooler, and then sitting on it.

"Maybe he was right." Sam says, shaking his head, smiling, and beginning to bury the still flaming carcass when Dean motions for him to 'hurry it up'.

"Hmm," Dean says around the beer bottle, he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe."

the end.

Thank you everyone who went on this little adventure with me! I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did!

Lenail125, hope you enjoyed this, it was for you!

This is the last chapter so...PLEASE LEAVE ME A REVIEW! ;)

thank you


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